Sacrifice
by Lost Violet
Summary: Claire Redfield stikes a Faustian deal with Wesker and suffers the consequences of her selfless sacrifice.
1. Chapter 1

Sacrifice

Chapter 1

5-Minute Break

Twenty computer screens saturated the room in a pale glow. White glare illuminated the chiseled profile of a well-coifed man, swathed in midnight black from his neck to the toes of his custom made boots.

"Not quite what you hoped," Ada said. She slapped a disc into a gloved hand. "A recovery team was dispatched to WhilPharma. Downing, however, is another matter. He's been taken into custody. Extraction will be difficult."

"Do not dare presume to know what I hope, Miss Wong."

"If that will be all."

The man spun his chair around to face her. "Not interested in the show?"

She shook her head. "I was there, for most of it."

An eyebrow arched upward over the rim of polished sunglasses. "Admiring Kennedy's work?" It was Ada's only sore spot and he loved massaging it.

"None of your business." She retreated to the door. "And Kennedy went down an old road last night." She paused in the doorway. "With a red head. Maybe you've heard of her? Her last name is Redfield." She smiled a snakelike grin. _Right back at ya, you son of a bitch!_

She watched with satisfaction as the man clenched his fists into a ball, and slowly released them. The Redfield name was poison to his ears. The door closed with a hiss that matched his breath when he said _her_ name.

"Claire."

Wesker leaned back in the chair and waited for the data to download. He thought about the last time he had been close to Claire on Rockfort and smiled. What fantastic fun it had been using the Redfield girl to draw her Neanderthal brother into the open. A shame the timing of events on the base had not allowed for prolonged amusements. He found the younger Redfield quite an entertaining distraction.

He allowed her full access to his mental pathways during his few quiet moments of restful solitude, and in those moments he designed scheme after scheme in which he used her to torment Chris.

None of the ideas had ever evolved beyond the foundation of rudimentary plots due to his constant preoccupation with other, more pressing, matters, and because it had been simply as effective to spike Christopher's steroidal hormone rage by sending him constant reminders of what he could do if the mood suited him. Anticipation and suspense, the surprise of the unknown, were surprisingly effective mental predators.

A phone call here, an e-mail there, a detailed letter describing what he would do physically to the younger Redfield if he were fortunate to have her in his company once again.

Did Christopher share the entertaining notions with his younger sibling, or did he keep them a well-guarded secret? Wesker opted for the latter.

He snorted. The brain dead mass of brother muscle didn't have the first clue about his lovely, and definitely more intelligent, better half. She was stronger-in character-than Chris could ever imagine.

He wondered how much rage he could provoke if he sent Christopher some of his surveillance footage. Cameras, installed outside the Redfield residence, and photos taken of Claire when she dated Kennedy, indicated there was more to the Claire-Leon relationship than holding hands and eating ice cream while Pat Boone cooed sweet nothings in the background.

Wesker removed his glasses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and his eyes. _Eyestrain_. He'd been staring at screens for two solid days. He raised his boots onto the desk. _Five minutes_. He closed his eyes and let the girl creep in...

Raccoon City Park. A sunny spring day. The meeting place had been arranged through a third party. Plenty of open space and plenty of people in case either party decided to behave foolishly.

Wesker crested a grassy knoll and strolled around a man made concrete pond filled with ducks and ringed by two seat benches. He checked his watch. His contact was late. The designated bench was unoccupied.

He felt a tug on the back of his long jacket. He turned to face a young girl. He estimated her to be around eight or nine years of age, with red hair swirled the colors of mahogany and fire embers and gathered into a high ponytail on top of her head. She stood in his shadow.

"Can you help me?" the girl asked, her large aqua eyes made rounder in excitement, and almost too large for her small, delicate face.

Wesker glanced in several directions. Where were her mother and father? "Young lady, didn't your parents teach you not to talk to strangers?"

She pursed her lips together while she concentrated on how to answer his question. "I don't have any parents, just my older brother."

"And where is this brother?"

The girl pointed to a young man some distance away. He threw a Frisbee to a dog.

"You should ask him to help you," Wesker said curtly before he turned to walk away.

Another tug on his jacket forced him to give her his attention, yet again.

"I don't want to walk all the way over there to get him." She pointed in the direction of a tall tree nearby. A kite was stuck high up in one of its branches. "Can't you help me get it? You are closer."

Without giving him a chance to object, she grabbed him by his hand and pulled him toward the tree. It was a powerful reminder to Wesker as to why children irritated him. They always placed their needs before your own.

Wesker looked up. The kite was too high for him to reach it for her. "I can't help you," he said, wondering what she would do next. He would love to break her heart by telling her he wasn't going to climb up and get it for her if she asked him. It would serve her right for bothering him.

She didn't ask. She had a plan of her own. "I'll climb up and you…" She pushed him directly below the branch on which the kite rested. "You stand here and catch me in case I fall, okay?"

Wesker almost smiled at the child's resilient nature. He could appreciate ambition. "A sensible plan."

The girl nodded and started up the tree like a monkey, expertly weaving in and out of the tree limbs. When she reached the branch that cradled her possession she got down on her stomach, locked her legs together below the branch. and slowly inched her way across. She did well until a loud shout from behind them startled her.

Her Frisbee throwing brother raced toward them. "Claire! What're you doing! You'll fall!"

Word proceeded deed. The girl slid sideways and was now hanging on upside down. She looked at Wesker. "I think I'm going to fall," she said, without any of the normal hysteria he suspected a child might produce in her situation.

He nodded. "I would agree."

"Could you put your arms out, please?"

"How do you know I will catch you?"

"Because you smell like my brother and he wouldn't drop me."

Wesker was astounded. The child determined good people verses bad people based on scent. He made a mental note to always at least smell like the good guy.

He sighed at the absurdity of the whole situation and held out his arms. The girl plopped into them like a rag doll.

The young man was upon them as Wesker set her on the ground. "Thanks Mister," he said, out of breath. He pulled the girl close to him. "What'd you think you're doing? You could've hurt yourself."

"Getting my kite."

"Perhaps if you had kept a proper eye this child would not have placed herself in a situation to break her neck," Wesker admonished.

The boy looked away, his cheeks streaked candy apple red in embarrassment. He patted the girl on the back. "I'll get it Claire," he said and started up the tree.

The girl stamped her foot. "I could have gotten it myself." She looked up at Wesker. "He never lets me do anything."

"Indeed."

"Yep," she said. She turned to join her brother. As an afterthought she walked back to Wesker and held out a dirty hand. "Thanks anyway, Mister."

"A pleasure, Claire." He extended his hand and shook hers.

She smiled.

Break time was over. Wesker lowered his feet. He tapped several keys and brought data from the surveillance cameras at the Harvardville airport terminals up onto multiple screens.

He rolled the video, zoomed in and out, replayed, and fast-forwarded the footage indiscriminately. "Hello Senator," he said under his breath, staring at the first monitor.

Screens two, three, and four were wide angles of the arrival and departure gates. He panned a camera past a man in a Hawaiian shirt and straw hat. Jehovah witnesses were congregated in a far corner. Reporters were off to the right, eager for a Senator barbeque. A woman was on the left, beaming a broad grin, being greeted warmly by an eager child. A…Wesker returned to the previous frame. He rewound the scene and zoomed in closer.

"Dear Heart," he muttered. "What an interesting surprise. Whatever were you doing at Harvardville?"

A genuine smile spread across his face. He zoomed as close as possible. The words Terrasave were etched onto a backpack she had slung over her shoulder. "Were you planning a visit to my associates at Wilpharma?" he asked the screen as though he were asking her directly.

Screens five and six looped footage of the airplane barreling through the terminal. _There_! Infected emerged from the aircraft after it crashed. It had been a two-tier attack. One virus released, his samples, on the aircraft. One virus released in the terminal prior to the aircraft's destructive arrival.

Wesker reached for his cell phone. "Senator, we have a problem."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Laying the Groundwork

Leon clicked off his phone and set it on the nightstand. He grabbed Claire around her waist and pulled her next to his chest. "They tested the vials we obtained from Downing. They were nothing. It's a double cross. They want to move him to a safe house for interrogation. I-we-leave in two hours."

"What do you mean we," Claire whispered.

Leon's lips found her neck. He pressed a soft kiss onto her skin. "I'm taking you with me to a safe house. I'll see to it you're escorted home, with some one I trust, from there."

"Is it really necessary? I'm no threat to anybody?"

"Downing is up to something and I won't rest until I know exactly what he is up to, and with whom."

"I can't just abandon Terrasave, Leon. " Claire twisted around in the tangled sheets to face him. "I have a job to do."

"Angela's brother did it for you. It will take recovery teams years to sort through that smoldering heap."

"So, I'll move on to the next facility."

"After I figure out this mess with Downing." His tone left no room for further argument.

Claire scooted toward the edge of the bed, dragging the sheets with her. If it wasn't Chris, it was Leon. Neither of them ever asked what she wanted. They always thought they knew best.

Leon pulled her away from the edge and cocooned her in his arms. "Don't be angry. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

"Is that why you stayed away so long, because you cared so much?"

"That's not fair. You know why I put it, us, on hiatus."

"Chris?"

"Partly. Quite frankly I just don't understand why we had to be such a secret. I don't like hiding the truth. You should have told him. We should have told him. He needs to get over the fact that you are not only his sister, but a grown woman as well. A grown woman who, by the way, most certainly wasn't a virgin when I first had sex with her."

Claire ignored the virgin part. "And the other reason?"

"You said 'no'."

"I wasn't ready to get married Leon."

Leon's grip tightened. "I was."

Claire let his words sink in and resignedly gave in to his embrace. It wasn't worth the mental effort to fight either her brother or her sometimes lover. She was never going to make them see she could make decisions on her own. She knew in Chris's mind she was perpetually five years old, wrapped in a blanket of innocence, and in Leon's mind she had suffered enough in Raccoon City and Rockfort to need male supervision until the day she collapsed on her deathbed.

Chris was the rock and Leon was the hard place, and she would forever be stuck between the two. They set her boundaries. They decided which arguments she won.

When did the need to challenge and question die? Did it happen the moment she traded her gun for a clipboard? Did acceptance replace courage each time she added a candle to her birthday cake? Or had the mental regression from active participant to happy camper standby been a slow insidious process, like Alzheimer's disease, brought about by Chris' constant admonishments when she was a teenager?

She closed her eyes. Those had been some rocky times. Her breathing slowed to an even inhale and exhale.

Company medical didn't cover crazy, and even if it did; a few therapy couch sessions with a no name doctor flouting a degree displayed in a cheap wall-mounted frame, wasn't going to offer any more insight into her psyche than she already possessed. It was Chris' number one rule: nobody knows you better than yourself.

The whine of the heater pumping warm air into the room coaxed her eyelids closed... Christmas…

######

Claire was late. She sped to her destination. Changed lanes without a signal. Rolled through stop signs, and squealed her tires every time a red light turned green. Her behavior reckless and careless, and in her mind totally justified. Chris told her six o' clock, and when Chris said six o' clock he meant six o' clock, not half-past or quarter-two.

The problem was the dress. She'd bought it without his approval, knowing darn well that it did not meet his standard of what he considered proper attire-for her. It was low-cut, which showed off the growing assets on her chest, and slit up the side to reveal her long legs. A double no-no. When he saw her in it tonight she would get an immediate scowl, followed by a few words about decency, a stern warning, rounded out with a lecture, and then a good solid grounding when they returned home. She surmised this one would cost her at least two weeks, but he might just stretch it to a month because she had dared to wear it after he told her no, and because she dared to wear it in front of his coworkers at the party. In Chris's words: 'I don't like the way Vickers looks at you when you drop by after school to check in. I don't need him having nasty thoughts about you-and what he'd like to do with you.'

It had been on the tip of her tongue to reply, 'his thoughts wouldn't be anything I haven't already done,' but she remained silent and rolled her eyes. He'd recently allowed her to go on dates-actual permission-which meant no more sneaking out of the house, and she didn't want to ruin what little freedom she had obtained by clueing him into the fact that she had already 'done it' a few times with a boy she had known since kindergarten.

She waited until he'd left to pick up his partner, and then poured herself into the hip-hugging dress with a satisfied smile.

When she finished dressing, Claire stood in front of the full length mirror hung on the back of the bedroom door. She liked what she saw. Wondered if her mother had been this tall? Didn't like her hair down, but didn't think a ponytail did the dress justice. She felt her stomach churn. Chris said 'no'. The last thought made her pause, and she paused far too long thinking about what he might say, or do. When she looked up it was almost six, and she was going to be late.

Claire took her eyes off the road. She sped around a corner and flipped the knob on the radio. She looked up to find the front end of her car dangerously close to the vehicle in front of her. She hit the brakes. Too late. Her bumper smacked the back bumper of the other vehicle with a loud crunch. Metal on metal. _Chris is gonna kill me._

_S_he stopped her vehicle behind the black sports car. A man, dressed in a deeper shade of black than the car, got out and strolled briskly toward her vehicle.

Her eyes widened. The wet towel of reality flicked her in the face. Not only did she have the misfortune to rear end another vehicle, she had the extreme misfortune of rear-ending her brother's boss, Captain Wesker. Claire tugged nervously at her bottom lip with her teeth.

Chris came home night after night and told her one story after another about his boss's lack of personality and humor. Wesker was a rigid man with a solid attention to detail and, according to Chris, he absolutely did not believe in accidents! Claire could readily agree with every statement. She went to the STARS headquarters every day after school and would wait in Chris's office for him to finish for the day. Wesker usually never addressed her personally. He merely watched her from a distance. In the four years she had spent in the office she had officially only ever had one conversation with him, when she was thirteen. If there were ever a more thoroughly glum individual in existence she had never met them.

If he didn't look friendly at a distance, he looked even less agreeable up close. The jaw line of his face seemed set in stone. She wasn't sure of the protocol in this type of situation, especially since they technically knew each other. Get out of the car or roll down the window? The menacing look on Wesker's face made her decision for her. In no way was she getting out. Claire swallowed hard and rolled down the window. She tried to smile. "I'm so, so, so sorry, Mr. Wesker."

"I'm afraid an apology is not going to repair my vehicle. " He paused. Recognition spread across the harshness of his face. "Miss Redfield."

Claire twirled her fingers nervously in her lap. The man wore sunglasses that were polished to perfection and she could feel the eyes behind the glasses boring into her brain. "I wasn't paying attention. I'm so sorry. Chris has insurance. I mean-we have insurance. I'm sure it will pay for the damage."

"So the inconvenience of the time you are going to cost me is fine because you have insurance."

"I-I," Claire stammered. "I don't understand." It was true, she didn't understand. First he mentioned paying for the damage and now he was worried about his time. She shook her head and repeated her apology. "I'm sorry."

Wesker leaned forward. "You have already apologized, several times. My time is valuable. It has value to me. Is your insurance going to pay for my time?"

Claire caught a whiff of his cologne. He smelled like Chris. A feeling of familiarity overcame her. "I-I-I don't know," she said, confused.

"Get out."

Claire glanced around. The street was empty. She gripped the door handle. What was the worst he could do? He knew her brother. Confident in Chris's reputation for hotheaded retribution Claire unlocked the door and stepped out of the car. Her purse, tucked between the seat and the doorjamb, went with her. The contents spilled onto the asphalt.

She gasped. Every item in the purse landed next to Wesker's boots. A compact, lipstick, her wallet, a tampon; all on display for him to see. She blushed a tomato soup red from her hairline to her chin.

Claire scooped the pile of items together and stuffed them haphazardly back into the black hole with a handle. That is, all the items except for one. Wesker bent down and retrieved this before Claire could grab it. She tugged her bottom lip with her teeth.

"It's a shame you don't take equal precaution with your driving, Miss Redfield." He dangled a package of half used birth control pills in Claire's face.

Claire snatched the pills from his hand and added them to the crud collection in the purse. She thought she saw the faint traces of a smile crack the concrete hardness of his face. Her blush deepened.

He rose and motioned for her to follow him. Claire trailed two paces behind and grimaced when he stopped at the bumpers and pointed to the damage. The car's gleaming coat of black paint dented and stained with streaks of blue. " Do you know how expensive it will be to replace my bumper?"

Claire fidgeted under his gaze. Over protectiveness be damned! Where was Chris when she really needed him? In answer to his question she shrugged her shoulders. Claire wasn't into cars; she preferred motorcycles. Chris had taught her to ride his, and the only reason she drove the crusty old station wagon tonight was because of the stupid dress!

Wesker continued. "Do you know how busy my schedule is without the added hassle of settling with your insurance, talking to my mechanic, and taking the vehicle in for repair?"

His tone rang like her brother's lectures in her ear, a clipped verse of words set to a tune she heard every day; a song she couldn't stand, drummed into her brain through timeless repetition. Claire crossed her arms. She felt the part of her that was Redfield rise to the surface. "Look, Mr. Wesker, I said I was sorry. I said our insurance would pay for it. I'm sorry you're out your time, there isn't anything I can do about that, but standing out here, freezing, isn't going to change any of it." Feeling confident, Claire spun away. Who needs Chris anyway?

An iron grip wrapped around her arm. Claire tried to pry Wesker's fingers away, digging her nails between her coat and his hand. "You are as impertinent as your brother, but it is what I would expect with him as your only role model. As to the waste of my time over this matter I believe an arrangement can be made to satisfy your debt."

Claire stopped prying. She raised an eyebrow. "What kind of an arrangement?" Somewhere in the back of her mind she pulled up the images of days she felt the burn of his gaze on the back of neck and had suddenly turned around to find him watching her. It reminded her of the long looks she received from boys when she went to parties with her friends. Claire pushed the images aside. Chris stated on numerous occasions he was sure Captain Wesker didn't have a 'dick' and if he did he wouldn't know what to do with it.

"Please pull your mind from the gutter, Miss Redfield," Wesker stated, as he observed her mental debate. "You are far too young and far too childish for a man such as myself."

"I'm not as much a child as you might think," she replied, not caring how her words portrayed her. "I'm nearly eighteen, and I do what I want, when I want."

Wesker arched his eyebrow. He tilted his head. She caught a flash of blue eyes over the rim of the shades. "Indeed? Your ability to spread your legs for hormonal boys does not make you an adult."

"What makes you think they're 'boys'?" she challenged, somewhat miffed that he did not think her capable of holding the attraction of an older man.

Wesker released his grip and took a step back. He tipped his head and the shaded eyes traveled the length of her from her head to her shoes. Claire gripped the sides of her jacket and closed the ends tightly against his unabashed appraisal. "Agreed," he said, at last. "You are enticing enough to gain mature affection."

Claire stiffened. She wanted him to admit it and yet it made her sick inside when he did. This man was older than her brother, and someone who was older than her brother should not be evaluating her potential to provide him with pleasure. Eager to be finished and on her way she brought him back to his original question. "What kind of an arrangement?"

"I have an inept cleaning service. The incompetent woman is always late and does not follow my instructions. I assume it is you who cleans up after your untidy sibling? It must be a real joy, if he can be judged by his sloppy work habits?"

Claire nodded. Chris was a pig. Everybody that knew him knew it. All she ever did was trail behind him and clean up mess after mess in his wake.

"I require a maid, " he continued. "Shall we say… every other day after school for two hours, for a period of three months?"

"Three months," Claire groaned. She didn't want to spend two seconds next to him, no way was she going to spend a couple of hours a day, every other day, for three months. "That seems like a lot," she muttered.

"Perhaps it will be a valuable lesson to you. I'm positive you will never make the same mistake ever again."

Claire tried to back peddle. "I don't think Chris is going to agree."

"I'm sure once the situation is properly explained Christopher will be more than happy to oblige."

The stomach churning sensation returned. _What a mess_! She was going to catch hell for the dress, a tirade for the accident, and Chris, who professed no love for his leader, was certain to unleash a torrent of anger on her if she were forced to be a servant to someone he hated. She might as well turn around and go home. Her life would be misery until graduation.

Claire was stuck. Chris would be forced to agree; therefore she would be forced to agree. "I guess you've got yourself a maid."

"Excellent. I'll discuss the details with your brother. He can let you know when you'll start." He turned to climb back in his vehicle.

Claire's shrill voice stopped him. "Wait! You're not going to talk to him tonight, are you? I mean; does it have to be tonight? Can't it wait till tomorrow?"

A thin smile creased his lips. "I never put off what can be accomplished today by leaving it undone until tomorrow. Enjoy your evening, Miss Redfield."

#####

Wesker stood at the window his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the sodden landscape. Rain. Rain. And more damn rain. It was the only thing he hated about England and the only thing good about it. You could create a whole countryside of verdant greens with this much rain, and it did.

Slowly, he turned away from the depressing grays of the overcast sky and faced the monochromatic emptiness of his current residence. It gleamed to perfection in polished metal, glass, and tile. Every piece of furniture and every neatly appointed decoration kept in its neatly appointed place.

With a gloved hand he ran his fingers over the leaves of the potted palm nearest to him and much to his dismay found a thick layer of dust. It seemed no matter where he went, or when he went, the cleaning staff never lived up to his standards. He let his eyes travel around the room seeking out other flaws in the perfection, and found many.

The coffee table was off by an inch. The leg indent marks shifted from their normal spot. Two pictures hung crooked above the fireplace. There was a stain on the rug beneath one corner of the sofa. The clock on the end table needed a new battery, and one light was burned out above him.

To be fair, his arrival had been unexpected and there had been no time for the staff to properly prepare for him, but that was the point: always do the right thing even if no one is looking, because you never know when they are!

Wesker sat down on the sofa and opened his laptop. He tapped at the keys for several moments, but lost his focus when his eyes found a prominent smudge mark on the glass coffee table.

_Kennedy went down an old road last night._

Ada's words bothered him. No, the meaning of Ada's words bothered him. He studied his own reflection in the glass. Kennedy was nothing. He was average looking at best; a man who could handle a gun in a sticky situation, and not much more. What the younger Redfield saw in him he would never know.

Wesker brought up the footage of the Harvadrville disk on screen. He scrolled in on Kennedy and Redfield's reunion in one of the halls. Claire glowed with a radiance normally reserved for a blushing bride and Kennedy's eyes were firmly glued to her backside. Kennedy, Wesker understood. He knew all about what the young agent saw in Claire. Claire on the other hand, well, Wesker did not understand her at all…

"You really don't need me here for two hours every other day," she stated when he entered the living room. "There's really nothing to clean. It's just a waste of my time."

"Exactly," Wesker replied. "Now you know how it feels to have your time squandered."

She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the television. Wesker set his briefcase on the table next to her and reached for the remote. He clicked it off and plopped it in her lap. An eyebrow shot upward; a silent dare for her to turn it back on.

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

"Use your imagination, but whatever it is do it quietly." He removed a stack of papers from the briefcase, and a pen, and settled into a chair next to her.

"My brother won't be here to pick me up for another hour," she complained.

"I do believe, Miss Redfield, that speaking is the exact opposite of quiet. And, Christopher was assigned extra duties for this evening. Your ride will be here in three hours."

"I'm not staying here for three more hours. I'll have one of my friends pick me up."

"Would this friend be of the female or male variety?"

"What's it to you?"

"I have an agreement with your brother to look after you while you are in my employ. I doubt he would like it much if you were to leave here in the company of a young man."

"Why? Can't I be a friend to a boy? A boy can't offer me a ride home."

Wesker walked to the kitchen and retrieved the cordless phone off its charger. He dropped it into Claire's lap to join the remote. "Perhaps, Miss Redfield, you should call your brother and find out. "

Her fingers fiddled with the phone for a moment and then she set it, and the remote, on the table.

"And the answer to your question is, no."

"What question?"

"No, if you were my sister or my daughter, you would not be allowed, at your age, to have any friends of the male kind."

"Well I'll just thank my lucky stars that I'm not your sister or your daughter then." She pulled her backpack next to her and dug in one of the pockets and removed a notebook. She flipped it open and began to draw.

"I'm eternally grateful as well," he countered in monotone as he watched her scrawl her name inside a big heart. The word Eric joined hers. She ignored his last comment concentrating on the feathered arrow piercing the center of the heart. Wesker lowered his shades. He studied her intently. The grand scheme of his plan had been to embarrass Christopher, as well as teach the younger Redfield a lesson, but he now concluded it was he who was being punished. He was of a serious mind to send Christopher a bill for daycare services rendered.

"Why do you look at me like that," she said without looking up from her artwork.

"Like what, Miss Redfield?"

"Like a cat staring at a mouse hole. It's kind of creepy."

"I was thinking what a joy it will be to have everything back to normal."

Claire frowned. "You aren't the only one. I've got the days marked on my calendar at home. Three more weeks."

"Three weeks and one day," he corrected.

She folded her paper in half and put it in the notebook. "Can't we just say three weeks and call it even. I don't want to be here. You don't want me here. You're just doing all of this to prove a point."

"Not true, Miss Redfield, your presence has brought me nothing but sheer joy, an escape from my silent doldrums… and a spotless environment."

Claire stood and stretched. "Yeah right. It's nothing but a power trip. You get to lord my mistake over my brother by making me clean your fridge and wash your laundry." She turned her large aqua eyes to him. "And I think you're a pervert. Only a pervert would stare at little girls the way you do." She smiled triumphantly at her assessment.

Wesker was on her before she could flinch. He slammed her body into the sofa and pinned her hands to her sides. He trapped her legs under the weight of his own and wrapped a fist into the long strands of her ponytail and twisted until the roots were taut, slanting her eyes. "As you have so often intimated since I have known you that you are no girl, and profess to be very much a grown woman, it would hardly be fair to label me as some child molester."

Claire twisted her head, closed her eyes, and flailed her arms wildly at her side. "Get off of me!"

Wesker brought his lips to hers. "Would you like me to show you a real man, Claire?"

Claire wrenched her body sideways. "You better get off of me. I'm going to tell my brother."

"It's a shame our story will not match. My version will be about a tease who thought we could work out our bargain horizontally."

Claire swallowed and looked him in the eyes. "You wouldn't?"

"Watch me."

"He'll never believe you..."

####

Wesker left a bottle of cleaner and paper towels on the table, along with a nasty note, and wound his way up the spiral staircase to his bedroom. He discarded his clothes in a wicker hamper and re-dressed in an identical ensemble. He pulled out another laptop and inserted a second disk.

He let a faint smile curl his lips. A malicious idea sprouted in his mind. It had been too long since he had sent Christopher his personal regards.

######

Jill emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.

Chris peered between the window slats. "Leon's information is always good. I wish we had found something, anything. I feel like we've been set up."

Jill wrapped her arms around his chest. She placed her head on his back. "Come to bed, Chris. Even Superman slept."

"I won't completely rest until Spencer, and every one else like him, is eliminated."

"They will be,' she said simply, "but it takes time. You can't fight to win on an empty tank. Don't you know you get better mileage off the top?"

Chris placed a hand over hers. His thumb caressed her ring finger. "Maybe for a few hours. I am tired tonight. I have to check on Claire first."

Jill shook her head. "Leave her alone Chris. She's fine. Leon is with her. Nothing is going to happen."

"That's what she said when she went to work for Terrasave. I thought she finally found something to keep her busy and out of harms way and now-and now I'm not so sure. And knowing Leon is with her isn't helping. I'm grateful he was there, but I'm not grateful he's holed up with her right now. God help him if he tries to touch her. I'll cave in his face and he'll spend the rest of his life staring at his own ass."

Jill cringed. It was not an idle threat. Chris was blind when it came to Claire and more than one man had been sent to the hospital on the back of one of Chris's right hooks in regard to his sister's virtue. "Chris, have you considered it might be time to give Claire some slack and let her live a little?"

"Nope. Every time I ease off something happens to help me realize how much she needs my protection. First it was our parents, then bullies, and then Wesker."

"Wesker?"

"Don't you remember when Claire hit his damn car? Son of a bitch used her for a cleaning service. Then it was the jackass that wanted her to run off with him. Then it was Raccoon City. Then Rockfort. Then it was Leon this and Leon that. Thank God she didn't give it up to him. Now Harvardville. Do you see a pattern here?"

The veins in Chris's head bulged. Jill pressed on. "You make it sound like you should lock her in a padded cell for her own good."

"Believe me, if I thought I could get away with it I would. I'll be looking for a new house when we get back. I'm not taking any chances. Not when I know what's out there. Not when he's out there."

Jill sighed. Hopeless. He was hopeless. She turned back the bed covers.

Chris lifted his laptop lid. "I won't call. I should call, but I won't. I'll send her an e-mail. Happy?"

Jill settled under the sheets. "If it will make you feel better."

"Bastard! Sick, demented, dirty, mother fucker!"

Jill bolted upright. "What now?"

"Wesker!"

"And?"

Chris brought the laptop to the bed and shoved it onto her lap. Jill looked briefly at the series of lewd photos and then looked away, sick. A cutout of Leon's head was photo shopped onto the naked body of a man. A cutout of Claire's head was equally doctored. Slide after slide of the duo engaged in sexual poses sat frozen on the screen. The last pose was the last straw. A three-way bang with Leon, Wesker, and Claire in the smuttiest scene Jill had ever seen. A caption below the photo brought bile to her throat: "If you can't trust your friends, whom can you trust?"

She'd barely finished reading the caption when Chris chucked the laptop across the room and took out a lamp in the far corner.

"I'm going to kill him, and when I do; I'm going to rip his head off and shit down his throat."

#####

"Kennedy is your primary target. He's been assigned to Downing."

"I want double."

"Agreed."

"And I want broken bones."

"Break anything you desire, except his jaw. Take him to Philadelphia. I'll meet you there in three days."

"Why the delay?"

"A prior engagement with an old friend."

The line went dead. Krauser smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Storm

He'd made a mistake. Called a 'meadow' a 'field', and now paid the price for his semantic flub.

"Technically, a field is a strip of cleared land suitable for cultivation. A meadow is comprised of low-lying grassland. Battles were fought on fields, Chris, not in meadows."

_This is what happens when your partner is a chick, and not a guy_. If Jill were a man the whole scenario played out different.

Guys constructed criticism around a good-natured ribbing. A dude reprimand over his word choice faux pas might have gone, 'Hey Chris, why don't we put on our pink tutus and ride our fluffy unicorns out into a meadow. We can traipse around with our candy-colored wands, and shoot the evil rainbow fairy with our sparkly pixie dust.' Emphasis on the words tutu, unicorn, and meadow; quite possibly a few fruity ballet steps thrown in to drive the point home.

Hardy-har-hars all around. An instant tension icebreaker while trekking into unfamiliar territory at Chris's expense.

What guys didn't do was break out a Webster's and go dictionary on some other poor mistaken guy's ass.

A flock of geese shot skyward. _Meadow, smeadow_. He'd tell her the earth was square if that's what she wanted to hear to shut her up long enough for him to think.

"They're all the same to me. Every damn last one parked in the center of bum-fuck-Egypt. Call it whatever you like, but once, just once, I'd like to make an arrest without a plane ride, boat ride, car ride, bike ride, canoe ride, backpack mountain climb, zip line, and a skydive to get close to my target."

"You had that chance, in Raccoon City."

"Nice. Way to bring it up." He brought his binoculars to his eyes.

"I'm not rubbing it in. I'm pointing it out."

Meadow. Field. BFE. The only thing moving on the manor grounds, not castle grounds, _thank you very much Leon and your overpriced informants_, was the long grass pushed back at the edge of a cliff swaying in the breeze.

"I'm going to correct Raccoon tonight."

"And when it's over? What then?"

He ducked behind a low stonewall and motioned her forward. "Last time I checked Oprah was black."

Storm winds brewed coffee-colored clouds across gray sky. Ocean swell rolled over the coastline and slammed onto a driftwood-drenched beach.

Jill hunkered next to him. "It's a cycle, Chris. You. Me. Hunting the Big Bad Wolf."

They stayed low and shuffled along the edge of a copse of trees. The first raindrops landed on his head.

Fifty yards closer he stopped and surveyed the scene again. _Where's the gardener_? A wheelbarrow, bags, and a rake lay beneath one of the trees that circled a paved driveway. Wind gusts stroked the ground. Cinnamon-brown leaves, lifted from neatly piled mounds, fluttered in the air, and scattered across pruned flowers in mulched beds.

"The thing is though this wolf, this beast, didn't start out Big and Bad. It started as a cub. It suckled. It grew. It developed fangs. It spawned its own cubs. There might be hundreds of dens out there; never ending plane rides and skydives, and just when you think you've cornered the last wolf, you won't, because there is always the one that gets away."

Chris grunted. "Not today."

_A car parked in the drive. Shiny. Factory shiny. Chimney smoke_. _Lower floor windows open_. _No lights_. Scratch that. A flicker of light flashed on the top floor and a dark silhouette painted on even darker walls.

He tugged the binocular strap over his head. "Here, have a look."

"Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Tell me what you see."

Jill gripped his chin. Her gaze met his. "Listen to me. I don't want to spend the rest of our lives stumbling into dens."

Lightening cracked its static whip across the sky.

Chris sat back on his heels. Only Jill could find a way to turn a mission into a lifestyle sermon. He half expected the rest of the team to pop out from behind the hedges in some surprise gang intervention. Save Chris Redfield from his one-track mind, or some such bullshit.

"We won't."

"Damn straight. I've made a decision."

_Jesus fing Christ! Why did women do this_? She'd had all the time in the world to make any revelation she needed to share over the last month, and she'd picked now, right now, of all time and places, to let her intentions be known.

"Tonight is my last stop. Spencer is my exit."

Chris tilted his head back and sighed. He needed her focused. Her lack of focus was going to get them killed.

His hand fumbled at the bulge in his vest. He rooted in his back pocket for a lighter. A quick glance at the front face of the manor, still devoid of activity, gave him a silent thumbs up. She obviously wanted something off her mind. He'd give her five minutes, or as long as it took to suck nicotine down to the filter. He owed her that much, and a lot more after last night's lip service.

"So, out with it." He flicked his lighter. The sparked flame instantly snuffed out in the stiff breeze. He cupped his hands. Flame. No flame. Flame. No flame.

Jill leaned into him. Her body blocked the wind. The lighter stayed lit and Chris sucked a hit of instant stress relief deep into his lungs.

"The dipstick was magenta," she whispered in his ear.

"What?"

"It's supposed to be purple, or pink. It's magenta."

"What dipstick?"

"The one I peed on yesterday morning."

"Why in the hell would you pee on an oil dips-" His cigarette slipped from his mouth and hung down his chin. "Oh."

The meadow fiasco branded him an uneducated idiot, but mistaking a car dipstick for a pregnancy test catapulted him straight to the top of the 'tard charts.

"I was going to tell you last night."

_A handy bit of information that might have been nice to have before we went green light with the plan. Damnit_! "So, why didn't you?"

"Timing. You were upset. Babies are happy moments, Chris."

Suddenly, she wasn't just his partner. She wasn't his best friend. His confidant. His lover. Suddenly, in half a cigarette burn, she was so much more. Protect overdrive kicked into jet propulsion high gear.

He stubbed his cigarette. The decision sucked harder than a dead transmission on a Saturday night, but like it or not, and right now he chose not, Spencer would have to wait. "C'mon." He grabbed her arm and turned back the way they'd come. His boots squished soggy bark and fallen tree limbs at a double time pace.

"Chris, what're you doing?"

"We're leaving. I'm hauling your ass back across this fie-meadow, and we're calling it a day."

The rain came harder now, BB gun size droplets wind driven into his skin.

"What? Why?"

"I don't want you injured."

She tried to plant her fast moving feet on the ground. "Wait just a second, Mister. Hold up. Who made you Lord All High and Mighty? You snap your fingers, say it's so, and that's it?"

"You said you were finished. Be finished."

"I said after Spencer."

"Why wait? You can call it quits right now. I'll deal with Spencer on my own."

"Over a magenta dipstick?"

"No." He stopped mid-stride and squared himself in front of her. His finger jabbed her vest. Each jab harder than the last. "No, no, no, no, no. This is not about magenta, or purple, or pink; this isn't a color or an inanimate object we're talking about here. This is a child. My child. Mine."

"Chris, calm down. We don't know anything. It may be nothing." She squinted her eyes. "As usual, you're over reacting."

"As opposed to under reacting? You want a man who doesn't give a shit?" He pulled a cluster of wadded one-dollar bills from his pocket. "Here, take it. All of it. Call a clinic, but don't come cryin' to me when it's not enough. There, is that piece of shit enough for you?"

They stared at each other over a thunder rumble.

When she spoke her playful tone had vanished. "Are you finished?"

"Look, Jill-"

She held up her hand. "We'll discuss our magenta problem, later, off duty." Her finger poked his chest equal to the number of times he'd tagged hers. "You don't get to decide, Redfield, what I will and what I won't do. When you're in charge you can decide, but you're not in charge, I am. As your superior I order you to turn around."

Gunshots pierced the howl of the wind funneled through the trees and the patter of rain on the ground.

They simultaneously drew their weapons.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Hello

They broke down on a two-lane highway somewhere between the last patch of grass and the second clump of dirt. Dust clouds chased tumbleweeds across parched earth as flat as an anorexic chest and barren as a cloistered nun.

He'd told him not to do it. Stood nose-to-nose with Deputy Director Marshall and said it would be safer, and quicker, to slap a pair of cuffs on Downing and hop the next non-stop flight.

Marshall predictably said 'no'; and men in Armani suits, with clean fingernails, ensconced in glass offices with penthouse views, never listen to a field man.

'Harvardville," he'd said, 'is an epic cluster fuck. I've got everyone from the CDC to the President crawling up my ass, and a world coalition of peace protestors, and anti-terrorist activists not far behind. I've got reporters camped out like hippies in a hemp field at every airport for three hundred miles. I'm not about to place a man linked to a disaster of this magnitude anywhere near an airstrip. Give the assholes that caused the first kaboom a chance to do it again.'

'With all due respect, Sir, I believe you're making a mistake.'

'And with all due respect, I believe it's your job, agent Kennedy, to do exactly what I goddamn say. Downing stays off the radar and out of site. Hired guns and badges come and go. Now, you get that sumbitch ready for land transport, or I'll find another badge who will.'

Leon shifted in his seat. Heated breeze, permeated with the leftover scent of antifreeze, swept beneath his neck and rustled wet hairs on the back of his head.

He mopped his forehead on his sweat-stained shirtsleeve and glanced at his watch. _Four hours_. He shaded his eyes. Two blobs appeared in the transparent heat wave ripple shimming above sun-bleached highway. Agent Barnes and Agent Noble, no relation to the purveyors of fine reading material, on quick-footed approach, moving twice the speed of zombie. _'Bout time_.

"Oh look, Tweedledee and Tweedledum return," Downing said in a droll, sarcastic voice that, based on recordings, and a few Chris Redfield impromptu impersonations, resembled a mutual six foot one blonde haired menace.

What Downing needed was a bit more hoity, a lot more toity, and a little less whine, to skyrocket his dour, demeaning tone from plain ass to straight up badass. A dash of virus and pinch of Wesker's ego wouldn't hurt either.

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, but didn't you send them off to bring back assistance?"

They'd removed their undershirt wife beaters and wrapped them around their heads like some sort of mini turban wearing tribesman. And, Downing was not mistaken, they were supposed to get to the next exit and bring back a tow truck, rental, or well-paid redneck assistance. The fact that they had disintegrated from trained agent into survival show contestants told Leon everything he needed to know. Help wasn't coming.

"And would it be too much to ask why the phone you've been using to play DJ, with a repeating set list, since the sun came up cannot be used to call for aid?"

Leon slid his feet into his boots. "We went over that Downing. We're on communications blackout. Our next scheduled transmission is set for twenty two hundred, ten o' clock. Until then," he glanced at Barnes and Noble through the windshield glare, "it looks like we're stranded. We'll have to make the best of it."

"But, this is a special circumstance. Is it not? It's one call. One word. I was thinking something along the lines of...help."

"I have my orders Downing. No radio, cell, computer, or," he waved an arm at the open expanse, " smoke signals. Ten o'clock means ten o'clock."

He raised an oversize container to his lips. _Thirtbuster, my ass_. The watered down, lukewarm beverage lost its ability to 'bust' his thirst three hours ago.

Downing cleared his throat. His intent to wheedle and complain every long remaining minute on the countdown to contact as incessant as the oppressive sun hung suspended above the vehicle. "Would it be too much to ask for my own drink, officer Kennedy? It's hotter than Satan's armpit in here."

Leon raised his seat and shot a quick glance in the rearview mirror. "It's agent Kennedy, Downing."

"Doctor, if you please. I earned that piece of paper."

He plucked the straw from his soda, clenched it between his teeth, and blew into a used Styrofoam cup. He filled it halfway, leaned around the seat, and pressed the cup to Downing's lips.

"Is this really the best you can do?" Downing wrinkled his nose. "Piss warm cola."

Leon rolled the straw to the side of his mouth with his tongue. "Drink it, don't drink it. That's all there is."

"I think I'd rather dehydrate, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself."

He tossed the cup out the door. Spider web cracks in the soil sucked the moisture into its crevices like a fluid-starved vampire.

"You've made it clear we'll be here until the calvary is given permission to charge; given the circumstances, do you think it might be possible to get out and walk around for a bit. Flex my legs. Perhaps, take care of a few personal needs?"

"Downing, if you need to use the bathroom, why don't you just say it."

"I was trying to be discreet."

That logic right there, in Leon's opinion, was the problem with ninety nine percent of the adult population. Say what you mean and mean what you say. How hard a concept was it to grasp. Sugarcoating shit balls in chocolate didn't change the fact they were still shitballs.

He slipped his arms out of his shirt and draped it over the door. He could go for walk himself. Maybe a stroll, present company excluded, wasn't such a bad idea.

Leon unclipped a key ring from his belt. He patted a firearm tucked in its holster. "I'll agree to a potty break. But, I'm warning you Downing, if you try to run I'll put one in your leg." He pulled the straw from his mouth and dangled it in Downing's face. "And use this for a catheter until we reach our destination."

"And where exactly would I run, agent Kennedy? The sagebrush on my left, the cacti on my right, or the whole lot of nothing in between."

"If you don't want to pee through a straw I'd suggest none of the above."

"Threaten me with violence again, agent Kennedy, and my attorney will have you cleaning restrooms at a gas station. What a charmer you must be with the ladies."

Leon took a step back as Downing swung his legs out of the car. "I do just fine."

"Like the number at the airport?"

Number seemed cheap. Inconsequential. A space in a little black book reserved for when the numbers above it said, 'no.' "She's not a number. She has a name."

"But not yours."

"What's it to you, Downing?"

Leon's phone sounded a siren ring tone.

Downing stretched his arms over his head. "So much for communication blackout."

Deputy Director Marshall's number flashed on the screen.

"Kennedy speaking."

"Hello, handsome."

"Ada?" Leon spun around. His gaze swept the horizon.

"Bingo."

"How did you get this number? This is a secure line."

"No time for chat. You have two on your tail, and another party inbound. Better make like a refugee and head south."

"Ada, where are you?"

"Consider me an eye in the sky. Haul ass and watch for my signal."

"Ada...wait-"

Downing tapped his shoulder. "Agent, Kennedy."

"Ada?"

"Ah, agent Kennedy."

Leon brushed Downing's hand off his shoulder. "What?" He turned and saw exactly 'what'. The headgear wasn't a wife beater. The heads weren't Barnes' or Nobles'. These men carried big guns slung across bigger bodies, and they were headed straight for them.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Goodbye

His stride matched hers. Sure-footed steps galloped side by side. The threat of something wicked this way comes riding their backside like the wind propelling them down the drive.

"Front or back?"

"You tell me," he huffed. "You're in charge."

"I asked for an opinion, Redfield, not a smart ass comment."

"I tried to share one earlier."

"It's never too late."

"Nice day right," he said between breaths. "Or it was, until Mother Nature decided to pop a squat and take a piss."

"Get to the point."

"Point is someone, the gardener, spent a shitload of time out here today. Where is he?"

"Maybe he finished for the day and didn't want to get caught in the storm?"

They jumped over a shrub cluster. "We're not talking about some kid mowin' lawns for video game money. We're talking about a professional groundskeeper. Professionals take pride in their work, their tools. They store their shit."

"Point noted."

They sprinted up to the Audi back end and dove behind the bumper.

Jill brushed a stray, wet lock of hair from her eyes.

"Windows are open. You think the cleaning staff is as careless as our friend the gardener? You think they forgot to shut the rain out." He glanced at the patio balcony. _All, or some_. Technically, she was his superior. He owed her his full assessment.

"Fourth floor. Center window."

Jill's head popped up over the trunk. "I see movement."

"I thought I saw something, I don't know, maybe someone earlier."

"Spencer?"

Chris motioned her to follow. They dashed up to the side of the house and pressed their backs against the wall.

"I don't know. Maybe it was Spencer. Maybe it was a trick of light. Maybe it was nothing at all." _Please, let it be noth_ing. His gut instinct said, 'wishful thinking, dumbass', and his gut had never lied.

Was the revelation of Spencer's current residence good timing, or coincidence? An orchestrated opportunity for an all too familiar sociopath to cross two people off a very short to do list.

Intel gave Wesker's last known location as South America. Jungle swamps and malaria were a far cry from the Queen Mother and fish and chips. There was no reason he should be in England, unless Chris flattered himself enough to believe that Wesker's contempt for him merited a special let's see who has the bigger balls guns and ammo reunion.

A part of him wished Wesker were here, the stupid and reckless part. Bag two contemptible masterminds for the price of one.

Wesker, alive, meant a commendation and a medal. Wesker, dead, was worth a whole lot more than peace of mind. Every rag tag, suitcase livin' mercenary in the business wanted a piece of his leather lovin' hide. A finger alone was worth a cool million to the right, and ready to pony up the dough, party.

In some twisted, sick way Chris almost felt sorry for Wesker. Bad enough to have a monkey on your back let alone ten monkeys on your tail.

The sane part, buried beneath a bulky don't fuck with me or I'll fuck you up exterior, wrapped in whispers spoken in shuttered rooms with his best gal curled up beside him, knew better than to hope for a tango with Satan in a crowded ballroom filled with innocent bystanders.

They shuffled down a rose bush lined flagstone path.

Chris Redfield didn't believe in prayers, divine intervention, or even simple luck. Men controlled their own fate. He drew faith in self-reliance and a gun. Useless words uttered to an empirical being with a grand master plan got you shit in one hand and manure in the other.

He'd asked for a miracle, once, and got a doctor who said, 'I'm sorry,' the responsibility of a sister too young to tie her laces, and two caskets paid for in one hundred ninety nine dollars down, and thirty six easy payments of one hundred dollars a month, by a congregation of humble, decent folks who couldn't give them a home, but gave half his family decent velvet lined boxes to rest their bones.

_I'll tux up and dance with the devil all night long; just don't let it be tonight. _Tonight, his dance card was full. He now had magenta on his mind, and the man responsible for Umbrella's atrocities, and its ghoulish global bio weapon enterprises.

Tonight, he'd come to drop the scales of justice on Oswall Spencer's head, not dip and strut with a madman with a possibly pregnant woman riding shotgun.

He lifted the latch on a gate. They passed quickly beneath an arched trellis wrapped in intertwined vines.

In the back of the house an open door bumped a lifeless lump slumped in its entry.

Jill raced up a set of stairs. "She's dead."

A crimson stain trailed out into the yard. Chris knelt down next to another figure sprawled out beside a tool shed. Grass stains on his pant legs and breeze blown leaves rain plastered to his whisker stubbled face.

Chris closed the mans eyelids. "He's gone," he shouted over the wind.

Jill stepped around the woman. She waved him forward. "Hurry. Come on."

He sprinted up behind her. Something wicked this way came. It had wrought destruction in its slithery wake. A smoke filled kitchen. A pot bubbled over onto a stove. Random pieces of furniture shattered on thinly mortared stone. Its menacing presence loomed larger than the life size paintings and tapestries on the walls.

A scream echoed through the deserted halls.

Another body in the foyer dressed in a black suit and tie. The torso bent over a busted banister and legs that twitched in a final death throe.

Jill looked at Chris, and they both looked up.

"Fourth floor."

They bounded up a staircase. Their boot heals clacked stone. One, two, three steps at a time.

"Promise me. "

"Anything."

"We walk out of here together."

"Deal."

They careened around a corner and raced down a red-carpeted corridor lit in candle and bright lightening pulses.

Breadcrumb trail blood drops stopped at the end of the hall.

Jill nodded. Chris nodded.

His heart thumped a marching band rhythm in his chest. He'd craved this moment more than the first time a girl let him lift her skirt.

Tomorrow he'd wake in a world bigger, brighter, and full of possibilities he hadn't considered since Raccoon City. Jill's magenta problem the delectable icing on his Chris Redfield cake.

He took a deep breath and did the one thing he vowed he'd never do again. _Please, Lord, let me be wrong. Let it be nothing. Just this once. Let me walk away with my best gal, and Spencer in tow, and I'll be the first man pew side every Sunday for the rest of our lives._

He threw his shoulder against the door. It flew open in a splintered spray. "B.S.A.A. Hands up. Don't move." The words were automatic. He said them before his eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the room.

Thunder roared. Wind blown curtains billowed in the tangy sea breeze.

A black flutter. A tipped over mahogany desk streaked in bouncing fireplace flame. Laughter.

"Good evening, Christopher. Nice of you to finally join us."

"Wesker." His heart drummed faster. Something wicked standing right in front of them.

"Oh God," Jill exhaled in a slow whisper.

"The one and only." He pivoted, and opened his trench coat folds in one fluid, sweeping motion.

An elderly man lay at his feet; an oxygen mask askew on his face. His lifeless eyes as glassy as the orbs that looked down upon them from the stuffed animals mounted on the walls.

Chris swallowed the lump, and the taste of cheap burrito, in his throat. For a solitary second he wished he'd eaten something more fitting as a possible last meal. Filet Mignon. Porterhouse steak. A man could die happy with a choice cut of beef in his stomach.

"Christopher Redfield, Jill Valentine, allow me to introduce Oswall Spencer."

Jill maneuvered around Chris. "You killed him."

"Your powers of deduction are astounding. What gives it away the blank expression on his face, or his rather inarticulate greeting?" He stepped over Spencer's still body as though it were nothing more than a crack in the ground and moved toward the center of the room in slow, deliberate steps.

Jill leveled her gun on Wesker's chest. "Don't do this, Wesker. Give it up. Come peacefully."

"And spend the remainder of my life locked in a government research facility. Sounds positively enchanting."

"Not as enchanting as the sound of your brains splattering walls."

"Chris, don't."

Wesker removed his glasses. He plucked a spotless white handkerchief from his pocket. "Please, by all means, let him continue." He blew on the lenses and rubbed the cloth over their reflective surface. "His ignorance astounds me. It is beyond all statistical measure of incompetence."

_Do it! I can't. You've got all the reason you need lying on the floor, and three innocent people coffin bound knocking on pearly gates. Sorry, Bucko, it doesn't work that way. _Damn, he wished it did_. _His finger twitched against the trigger.

Wesker slowly folded the frames and deftly deposited them on a side table. "I was beginning to wonder if you would show. Took you long enough. I grew tired of waiting."

"Better late than never. I don't care if I'm the last one to the party as long as I'm not the first to leave."

"Spoken like a man familiar with second place. I am fairly certain if Spencer and company were still able to exhale carbon dioxide they would disagree with your rather lax sentiment. Remind me never to count on your untimely assistance if I am ever in dire need."

"You'll be in dire need of a good mortician to sew your face back together when I'm finished."

Wesker laced his fingers together and gave his knuckles a stiff crack.

"Chris, stop! No one else needs to die here today."

"Incredibly noble, incredibly foolish, and incredibly incorrect."

It happened faster than he anticipated. In a half heartbeat thump his world grinded to a halt. Action and reaction dealt in slow motion.

A black-flocked smear sucked the fireplace flames horizontal. A funnel twist blur; and a flap of trench coat on thigh slicing through the air, spun in the gap between them.

Chris fired. Jill fired. A vase shattered. The front face of a grandfather clock exploded in glass shards. The chandelier rocked on its ceiling hinges.

Muzzle flash and smoke. Acrid gunpowder funneled down his throat. Empty clip clicks. _Reload. Reload._

A fist emerged from the whirlwind. Chris snapped his head sideways to dodge the incoming blow and dipped his shoulder back. His spine bent like a limbo dancer going under a not so low pole. Wesker speared air. A leather glove skimmed his chin.

The whirlwind dissolved into Wesker. No! He blinked. Wesker's body had caught up to his arms.

Chris ducked under the second swipe at his head. He tossed his gun and came up swinging. He pounded a quick blow into Wesker's gut and a tooth-rattling uppercut into Wesker's jaw.

Jill unleashed a swift roundhouse. Right leg first. Her boot scraped flesh from his leering face. Her left leg smash follow up clocked Wesker ten ways from Sunday in the nose. His face sprang a leak and his malevolent smile turned into bloody, crimson frown.

Wesker staggered, teetered on his heels, regained his balance, and barreled forward. Superhuman movement not even a superhero could dodge. The collision knocked Chris off his feet. Wesker's shoulder drove them backward. Rib bones snapped like a candy cane and punctured Chris's lung. His spine spiked a bookshelf and he felt his crumpled body jerked upright by sharp tug on his vest.

The clap of fresh rounds slammed into a chamber. Bullets shredded air in the gap between their faces. A direct hit to Wesker's bicep. Leather bits blown across his chest.

Chris flung his head down on Wesker's forehead. The grip on his vest was released. Gravity sucked him to the floor. He landed with a double pop onto his knees. Papers cascaded like feathers.

Wesker clutched his arm. His pupils flared orange. He spun around. A black streaked dash deposited him next to Jill. "Pathetic." He cracked a backhand across her cheek. She stumbled.

_Jill_. _Get up Redfield_. Stabbing pain riddled his side. Rapid gasps dragged through deflated lung, the equivalent of sucking air through a straw, left him breathless. Lightheaded.

Wesker latched onto her neck. He thrust her body upward toward the rafters. Her slim fingers frantically tugged at his arm. Her boot tips jabbed his thighs.

Wesker yanked her within inches from his face. "In reference for future altercations might I make a suggestion, Miss Valentine? Pick a partner who is capable of upholding their end of the deal, or do not bother to bring one at all."

_Jill_. He pushed himself onto his feet. Whisked his combat knife from its worn leather sheath.

Wesker swung his arm back and cast her airborne.

A panic rush flooded his veins. Chris Redfield's heart torn from his chest and shoved into his windpipe.

He charged. Slammed his body into Wesker's side and sunk the knife to its hilt in his leg. They toppled onto the floor. Chris on top. Wesker on the bottom. He grabbed Wesker's head and pounded it onto the rug.

Jill struck a marble statue, ricocheted off its sculpted breast, and landed on a pile of books. She rolled onto her side and clutched her midsection.

Wesker hitched his leg over Chris's waist. Chris went for the throat. He locked his arm around Wesker's neck in a forearm chokehold. Every ounce of energy channeled into his bicep.

Wesker looped his foot around Chris's ankle, and gave a quick twist. Pain surfed up his leg and collided with the repeated, throbbing waves coursing through his side.

Wesker wrenched the knife from his leg. He swung it down over his shoulder. Blood drops fell on Chris's face. The tip took a chunk of Chris's vest and an even bigger chunk of his arm. His arms recoiled.

Wesker planted his hands, palm side down, wrist up, on the side of his head. He swung his legs upward and preformed a back handspring. A hazy black blur somersaulted over Chris's head like a well-trained gymnast.

He landed with a graceful pounce and straightened himself to his full height. He brushed debris from his pants.

Chris rolled onto his stomach. _Get up Redfield_.

Wesker clapped his hands. "Bravo, Christopher. I applaud you at yet another lackluster attempt at ending my existence."

Chris tried to push his chest off the floor. His hands gave way beneath him. "We're not finished," he rasped. _Get up Redfield_. He dug his fingernails into the rug.

"Do us both a favor, Christopher. Stay down. Admit your defeat, and I will spare you the humiliation Spencer suffered before he breathed his last word."

He dug his nails deeper. _Get up Redfield_.

Wesker's boots crunched glass. His shadow fell across the length of carpet.

"Go to hell." Chris whispered into the soft fibers stuck to the corners of his mouth in a pink tinged mixture of spit and blood.

Wesker shoved Chris onto his back with his boot.

A silver barrel danced in his blurred vision.

"Send me an invitation, and someday I will be sure to drop by." He pulled the hammer back.

Suddenly, there was movement. Wesker whisked away by a lithe body in green fatigues that hit him like a battering ram.

_Jill._

Chris rolled onto his side and raised himself to his knees.

She had her arms wrapped around his waist and enough momentum to lift them off their feet. They sailed toward the open window.

His eyes went wide as lidless pool balls. He scrambled toward the balcony. "Jill!"

Their bodies struck the balcony rail, and they both toppled over the side.

Their feet upended, and they hung suspended for a moment above the empty expanse, and then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

"Jill!"

Two figures plummeted toward the rocks.

Another prayer unanswered; Chris Redfield's world tumbled end over end into mist.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Claire

Part 1

A worried Claire was a restless Claire. Toe-tapping, nail biting, floor scrubbing, fishbowl cleaning, clock watching, sixth month old, _why is this even still here, _magazine reading, gonna go AK, and it had only been a day, shoot 'em up nuts.

Leon dropped an anvil on her thick as steel skull and her supervisors at Terrasave spiked his point home. She was on official lockdown. No in. No out. Sequestered in her house, and placed under twenty four-hour round the clock surveillance, courtesy of the Department of Defense, in collusion with the State Department, and backed with the blessings of a few politicians she didn't recall voting for.

Agent Bartles, and Agent James, no relation to the fine brew masters responsible for the cheap girly cocktails in a bottle that cluttered her nightstand, took turns in twelve-hour shifts. They were stationed like stalwart Buckingham Palace Guards outside her front door, and one loogie drop away from her bedroom window.

Not only did said agents keep her in, they kept the press out. Five news vans and an ever-growing group of reporters had managed to locate her address and had set up a makeshift refugee camp outside the gates to the Redfield residence.

It was a regular festival. Lights. Tarps over tables stacked high with catered food. Pancake makeup faces peered between gaps in the wrought iron fence. Cameras panned the front face of the two-story dwelling. Lenses lingered on the windows.

Claire Redfield, average Joe's sister, and sometimes zombie skull crusher, was the hottest scoop since Elvis' ghost had been caught on film at Graceland.

Non-stop calls, to a supposed to be unlisted number, rang her phone off its proverbial hook. Her e-mail took a similar hit. The inbox was on overload. Messages poured in faster than she clicked delete. A teen would flip cartwheels over this kind of popular. An adult on restricted leave, not so much. The world wanted in, and right now it was her mission to keep the world out.

Five aspirin, one unplugged wall jack, one shut down computer, and a good hot bath, later Claire managed to stymie the privacy invasion that had kept her hoppin' most of the day.

She climbed into bed with a six pack tastier than the ones found on a certain, needs to bust his ass a little harder in the gym, agent James.

Television was the worst. She leaned back on her propped up pillow and sipped her wine cooler while she flipped through the channels with the remote.

According to this station she was Bigfoot's lover, or so said the 'expert' in the beat up straw hat and scraggly beard that had supposedly followed them to their 'love cave.'

The Guns and Ammo Network, _wait_-she flipped back-_do they really have a guns and ammo cable channel_, had gone on the offensive. Tonight's topic: building a better zombie proof shelter. On deck, the eternal weapons debate, a sword, or a gun? Claire frowned. _Everyone knows the answer to that_.

And surprise, surprise, here was Dr. Dink face. She'd wondered when he'd crawl out of the woodwork to give his shit for brains opinion.

_This 'oughta be good_. She cranked up the volume.

'So what you're saying Doctor, is that it is wrong to exterminate these, for lack of a better word, zombies.'

'Absolutely, Ted. These beings, these creatures, are no less worthy of our understanding and our compassion than any other life form in existence on the planet. They have inherent human rights. To arbitrarily exterminate them is an inhumane act of cruelty and violence.'

Spoken like a man who'd never had a swarm of flesh eaters crawling up his backside on an all night brain bender. And since when did a walking corpse have rights? What came next? A health plan? Two for one zombie buffets? Equal rights in the workplace? Granted, she knew a few motor vehicle locations where a zombie infusion might be an improvement, but she aimed to keep her leg attached to its hip socket. _Thank you very much, Dr. Dink face._

'The goal is not their eradication.'

'What is the goal, Doctor?'

'Well, isn't it obvious? We need to focus on the human within the inhuman. Achieving a quality of life for these so called, 'zombies' that will allow them to once again become functional, productive members of society.'

Unless the goal included an army of rapid amputation specialists, Dr. Dink face needed to have his head examined, and Claire knew a few adversaries who wouldn't mind performing a brainectomy.

She'd tie a carcass on a bumper and slow roll a bunch of skin crunch-a-munchers right up to Dr. Dink faces' door. Watch him scream about zombie rights with his jaw hanging off his face.

Claire clicked the button. She lowered the glass bottle from her lips. Sherry. A photo of the girl pasted next to an unflattering, and who wouldn't look like shit after an all out zombie brawl, picture of Claire. It was taken the morning they stepped out of Raccoon City as survivors, and walked into fame.

Sherry. The one promise she'd never kept. An irremovable stain smeared on an otherwise lily-white conscience.

She sunk deeper under the blankets. She'd sacrificed the well being of a helpless child to find her brother. A brother who was more than capable of taking care of himself. Chris didn't need her. Never had. Sherry needed her.

Not a day went by the girl wasn't in Claire's thoughts. Not a night where she wasn't in her dreams.

The smiling face rubbed her heart beyond raw. She'd gone over should have, could have, would have, more times than she could count. It didn't change anything. She'd failed, pure and simple, and that's all there was to it…

Sherry. She called Claire's name in whisper. Her voice close. Her voice far.

Claire in her nightgown. Elegant marina blue swirls fashioned in a high-waisted empire style.

An empty corridor. Locked doors on either side played peek-a-boo in the mist clinging to the air.

'Claire.'

She stepped into the haze. The light behind her flickered. 'Sherry.'

Childish giggles. 'Find me, Claire.'

'Sherry, where are you?'

'I'm here.'

'Where?'

'Find me, Claire.'

She walked faster. Her bare feet sinking into and rising above the tilted hallway floor.

Darkness chased her heels. The corridor stretched longer. The walls grew closer. 'Sherry, where are you?'

'I'm here.'

'Where?' There were so many doors. Too many to check. Cold brass handles thrown open into empty rooms.

'Claire.'

'Sherry, I'm coming.'

A t-junction. Left? Right? Both corridors echoed her name. 'Claire.'

Crying. 'Help me, Claire. I'm all alone. I'm scared.'

Her pace quickened. 'Hang on, Sherry. I'm coming.'

She rounded a corner. Her eyes blinded in brilliant white light. The shape of a small child sitting, head downcast, on the floor. 'Sherry.'

Silence. The light dimmed, like a candle slowly deprived of oxygen to feed its flame. 'Sherry.'

She reached out. The child's chin went up. Her lips parted in a scream. She stumbled backward. _Jill_.

Jill's head on Sherry's body. Jill's voice came out of Sherry's mouth. 'Find me, Claire.'

Jill's head, and Sherry's body, undulated in the mist.

Footsteps behind her. Chris pushed through the haze. He bolted past Claire, ruffling her nightgown sleeves. His gun was drawn. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

'Chris!'

He turned. Grinned. 'Come on squirt.'

'Wait!'

His footsteps faded. The mist he had parted folded over the corridor in wispy waves.

'Chris!' Claire ran. Faster. Faster. Her heart pounded the rhythm of her feet.

The walls disappeared. The mist rolled back. A door at the end of the corridor swung open and shut on rusted hinges.

A closet. A bedside table lamp cast a warm glow across half closed louvers. Chris's hand on her mouth. His fingers clamped tight on her lips. Sirens sounded in the distance.

'Don't move,' he whispered in her ear.

Her mother screamed. Her father shouted. A loud crash. Gunshots. Footsteps on the stairs.

Tears flowed over Chris' hand.

'Please, Claire,' he breathed. 'Don't move.'

A masked figure entered the bedroom.

Claire whimpered.

The figure turned to the closet. A gloved hand reached out. The door was thrown open.

Laughter. Applause. She stood in the center aisle of an amphitheatre. Red velvet seats overflowed with rotted flesh.

Zombies. Hundreds of zombies dressed in black suits, ties, and polished loafers. Their flesh stripped hands clacked bone against bone.

Familiar faces front and center. Chris. Jill. Rebecca. Barry. Forrest. Vickers. Ada. Clapping.

'Sherry.'

Their applause drowned her voice. 'Sherry!'

A white speck splashed on the stage in front of a maroon curtain backdrop. Leon.

'Leon.'

He waved to her.

She gathered the length of her nightgown and climbed the carpeted steps.

He held out his hand. 'You're late,' his lips mimicked. No sound came from his open mouth.

'Claire.'

'Sherry.'

Leon's fingers rested on her elbow. He guided her toward the curtain.

His gentle, feather light touch faded into a firm grip.

Claire spun around.

Gangrene faces. Laughter. Pointing. A black suit, darker than the others, in front of her. A shadow a deeper shade than midnight fell across her face.

The man in the black suit swooped around her in a circle. Claire turned with him. The room revolved in a merry-go-round of blurry faces.

'Sherry.'

The man breathed in her ear. 'Mine.'

'She's not yours to take.'

'I take what I please.' He pulled her to his chest and dipped her low. Her back rested on his thigh. Her body slanted a few inches off the ground. 'Try and stop me.' His mouth came down on hers.

Claire twisted her head to the side. 'Give her back.'

'Take her, if you can.'

The seats slid in reverse. The curtain rushed forward. Claire's nose brushed its musty folds. She flung it aside.

A container. A see thru plastic pod. A child suspended in clear liquid. Blonde hair swayed weightless about a cherubic face. 'Sherry.'

Laughter. Giggles. Air bubbles. Tentacles. Claws. Bulging pustules attached to her arms and legs like rivets.

The man in black. 'Do you still want her?'

'Monster.'

'Me, or the girl?'

Claire swung a fist. The merry-go-round stopped. Empty. Quiet. The walls exploded in confetti colored shards.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Claire

Part 2

Claire shot up. _Jesus, fuck_! A quick glance around the room, and a turn of the clock to check the time, reassured her it was five am, and all was as well as she'd left it in the real world after she'd cried herself to sleep with her cell phone clutched in her hand.

She fell back against sweat soaked sheets and tugged the comforter to her chin. Bits and pieces of the macabre scenes slipped away in the early morning dawn.

She hugged her pillow to her chest and eyed the empty spot beside her. Grateful the rumpled space went unoccupied, because she'd be hard pressed to explain the residual, broken images to someone else when she didn't quite understand them herself, and sad, because strong arms to hold her after…after whatever the hell that was might have stilled the racing thump of her heart, and allowed her to unburden a couple of cumbersome secrets that only came out to play when her eyes were closed.

The nightmare catalyst may have been the news story, she reasoned. Sherry's image enough to spark the dream powder in the keg. Equally suspect, however, was the only call she'd accepted late last night after she'd tucked herself into bed.

She blamed Barry, and left Sherry where she belonged; entrenched in the pleasant parts of her imagination where the little girl was alive, and happy, and she didn't blame Claire for her abandonment.

'How you holdin' up, kiddo?'

'Good. It is every girl's fantasy to be held a prisoner in her own home. From my limited experience I can tell you right now fairy tales are shit. Those damsels didn't sit at tower windows and pine for true love and rescue. They threw themselves off the highest parapet out of sheer boredom. I'm waiting for my ankle bracelet to arrive.'

He'd laughed. 'Hang in there. It'll blow over. Give it a few days. The press will move on to the next latest and greatest.'

'Better hope it happens soon, because I'm going out of mind. My floors are so clean I can serve a full course meal on them. Another day and I'll be able to drink out of my toilets. Well, maybe not Chris'.'

'That's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'The state of my soon-to-be-ex-home, or…' she'd peeked through the blinds and taken a long, calculated look at the distance between the window and the ivy covered fence in the yard, 'my imminent plans of escape.'

'Neither, but if I were you I wouldn't make things worse. Stay put. Stay out of sight. Especially, now.'

'I don't think things can possibly get any worse.' She'd raised a middle finger. _Print this you slimy bastards_.

A pause. 'There's been some trouble in Chris' neck of the woods.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'Promise me you won't panic.'

'Tell me what happened and let me decide if I'm going to panic.'

'It'll do you more mental harm than good, so don't do it.'

'You call me out of nowhere, when we haven't heard from you in months, while my brother is away on assignment, and then tell me not to panic. Fat chance. What's going on Barry?'

'Chris has been injured.'

'How? When? Where is he? He didn't tell me where he went. Is he okay? I'm on my way. Tell me where he is and I'll be on the next flight. Do I need a rental? Or can you arrange transportation?'

'Don't bother. Calm down. Listen to me; he's fine. He's been airlifted to a local hospital. Doing well. He'll go from there to the nearest military medical base, and then transport back to the States.'

'What happened?'

'I don't have all the details.'

'You must know something.'

Silence on the other end.

'Barry?'

'There was an…accident. Chris was injured. Spencer is dead. And Jill is…'

'Whoa. Back up. Spencer? As in Umbrella Spencer.'

'Yep. Somebody toe-tagged him.'

'Where?'

'You know I can't tell you where Chris went. That's classified.'

'Well, unclassify it.'

'You didn't hear it from me… England.'

'Spencer was in England?'

'According to a disgruntled ex-employee who's been in contact with Agent Kennedy's Special Tactical Response Department, Spencer turned up in England a couple of months ago. He was rumored to have been staying at a deceased relatives manor house on the coast.'

'And Chris went there to find him?'

'He went to arrest him.'

'Then how did Spencer end up dead? Chris is headstrong and reckless. He's not a murderer.'

'Honestly, Claire, I don't know. You need to talk to Chris.'

'So, Chris is hurt. You won't tell me how badly, when I know damn well that you know. Spencer is dead. And what about Jill?'

'Jill is…'

'Jill is what? Turned into a pumpkin? Grown wings?'

'Jill is ….I can't say anymore. Talk to Chris when you see him. He can fill you in on the details.'

'I'm not talking to Chris, I'm talking to you.'

'Claire, I would if I could, but the information is…sketchy, and restricted. I only called as a courtesy. I thought you might like to hear it from a friend.'

'How bad is it?'

Another pause, this time longer than the last. 'I'm not a doctor. But, from what I've seen in the initial reports he took quite a beating.'

'Was it an ambush? Spencer's men?'

'Ask Chris.'

'That's not an answer.'

'It's the only one I can give you. Take care. I'll see you in a few days.'

Ding, ding, ding, went the bell, and panic attack driven communications round two began.

Unanswered calls to Chris. Unanswered calls to Leon. A very short, 'call back later,' from the BSAA field office in England. No response on Jill's line. An unofficial, 'we're looking into the matter, we'll let you know as soon as we do,' brush off from the State side BSAA office of investigations and internal affairs. No listing of a Chris Redfield brought in for treatment at any of the medical facilities located within a hundred miles in and around London.

Scribble marks and doodles drawn on a notepad filled with names, numbers, extensions, and area codes. By the time her phone flashed low battery it was after three am. Mentally exhausted and physically spent she curled into a fitful sleep, and apparently drifted into nightmare.

Claire stared up at the ceiling. Mini Rorschach style blots were hidden in the textured brush strokes. Her sleep deprived eyes found a horse, mustang wild mane flowing over a short, stout neck. A porcelain faced doll. A sunken eyed skeleton head. Her eyes saw what her brain wanted her to see, and she wondered if her brain had used last night's events to construct her nightmare.

Sherry's photo explained Sherry. Chris?…that was a tough one. He wasn't hurt in her REM world. It was quite the opposite. He existed in her dreams much the same way he did in real life. His primary focus geared toward her safety. Zombies? No explanation needed. Leon? Ditto. Wesker? Now, that was a conundrum. Wesker was dead. Killed in Antarctica. No reason his ghost should decide to haunt her subconscious. His tainted blood wasn't on her hands.

Claire rubbed a sleepy out of the corner of her eye. Prolong the inevitable? Worry about Chris? Lay here and dwell on Sherry? Try to get in touch with Leon? Wonder about Jill? Barry's response, or rather his lack of response, with regard to her status was cryptic as Minoan writing, and as unfathomable as Jill's presence in Claire's dream.

She rolled out of bed. Time for some positive proactive behavior. She plugged her phone into its charger. Cue communications meltdown round three. She flipped on the light and grabbed her notepad.

Three hours, twenty-seven minutes, and forty-five seconds later she had exhausted her list.

The BSAA field office in England confirmed Chris had been taken by helicopter to a hospital near Portsmouth. He was stabilized and treated for 'undisclosed injuries,' and airlifted to the closest military hospital with BSAA access privileges, Royal Hospital Haslar in Gosport, Hampshire.

Royal Hasler confirmed, after the ok was given by the British BSAA liaison, Chris was on site, and in no immediate danger, but they would not discuss his medical condition with an unknown party without patient, and higher-level BSAA consent.

The patient, Chris, was currently sedated and unable to confirm her relation to him, and the British liaison wouldn't budge another inch without direct authorization from the United States branch.

Chris' supervisor, the director of the State side branch of the BSAA, finally returned her call after the fourth message she'd left.

'I am unable to discuss the particulars, Claire. The matter is classified. An investigation is underway.'

'I'm not asking you for a football play by play. Please, just set my mind at ease.'

'Who told you?'

'A little bird. Tell me he's okay. I need to know what happened to Jill.'

'Off the record, and only because Miss Valentine, and your brother, are two of my best field agents… Chris got into some hand-to-hand with an unknown assailant at Oswall Spencer's family estate near Portsmouth. Chris suffered a punctured lung, a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and a hairline ankle fracture.'

She'd latched onto the only words that sent her stomach straight to her knees. 'Punctured lung.'

'It sounds worse than it is. We've been informed the puncture was small and that his prognosis is good.'

_Thank you, God_. 'My bird tweeted he's coming home. When?'

'Day after tomorrow. He'll go straight to our primary medical base for initial assessment and recovery, and then transfer to headquarters for debriefing and a full hearing.'

'Hearing?' _This can't be good_. A new fear, one dedicated to concern over her brothers professional career, settled into the spot vacated by the earlier apprehension over his injuries.

'The BSAA office of Professional Ethics and Responsibility want first crack at Chris as soon as he can talk.'

'Why? Is it standard protocol?'

'Not always, but an international incident merits special attention.'

'What kind of 'special attention' are we talking about?'

'The kind that discovers cause and assigns blame so when attorneys get involved they know exactly whom to sue.'

'Is Chris in some kind of trouble? Your office sent him there. How could he be under any suspicion of wrongdoing?'

'Chris and Jill were sent to England to execute an extradition warrant, not cause a bloodbath. They were to get in and get out following BSAA guidelines, with the full cooperation and blessing of the British authorities, without incident. Four British citizens are dead. One of which, Spencer, was a highly philanthropic member of society.'

'Spencer? The Spencer? The man responsible for Umbrella? A philanthropist? My white ass. You can't be talking about the same person.'

'The man wasn't a total monster, Claire. Spencer's European roots grow deep. He funded several charities dedicated to the underprivileged and unemployed, and was the head of three children's foundations specializing in the research and treatment of terminally ill children.'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying I've, Chris, has got a huge problem on his hands. You can't kill a man like Spencer and expect no repercussions. The other victims families aren't going to be whistlin' Dixie either.'

'Chris didn't kill Spencer, or anyone else for that matter.'

'Do you know this for a fact? Were you there? No. Bullet shell casings found at the scene matched slugs recovered from the bodies of three additional, and yet to be identified, individuals confirmed dead on site. The same person who attacked your brother, presumably, murdered them as well. And, I use the term 'presume' very loosely.'

'My brother wouldn't harm an innocent person.'

'Your heartfelt innocence proclamation isn't going to explain Spencer beaten to a bloody pulp, and three bystanders shot, and killed, with a BSAA standard issue weapon.'

'That's impossible. Do you know how ridiculous this all sounds? It's preposterous. Ask Jill. She'll tell you. Chris would never do anything like what you're suggesting.'

'I would love to ask her. Have an eye witness collaborate this mystery assailant, and anything else Chris may tell us.'

'So ask her.'

'I can't. She's missing. Presumed dead.'

Claire's breath caught in her throat. 'Dea..it can't be.'

'According to unsubstantiated testimony Chris gave to a dive team member, that pulled him out of the ocean off the coast of Spencer's estate, Jill fell from a balcony window. She took a long drop header straight down into the deep blue and never came back up. '

'It can't be,' She'd repeated. Tears dotted the corners of her eyelids.

'Naval Sea and Rescue have been on site for twelve hours and so far, nothing. There was a storm that stirred up the current and visibility beneath the water is low. I've been informed chances for recovery are slim. '

'You sound like you're giving up.'

'We are. As soon as I hang up with you I'll be on the phone to naval support. They'll be packin' it in within the hour.'

'You're going to leave her out there?' An image of Jill floating face down, weightless; her hair clouded around a starched, white face, brought flashes of her nightmare back into the front runner of her thoughts.

'Claire, Jill's corp…. remains could be anywhere by now, and as much as I would love to dredge the English coast until the cows come home, it just isn't financially, or logistically feasible.'

'Has anyone told Chris? Does he know you're pulling out?'

'Chris was a hot mess when the divers got to him. Almost entirely incoherent. He gave a short statement, and passed out before they loaded him into the helicopter.'

Anger undercut the hysterical rise in her voice. 'How could you? After all she's done. She deserves better.'

'We've done everything we can do on our end. Mr. and Mrs. Valentine have been informed of the incident. They are on their way to BSAA headquarters. I have the impression they intend to make short work of the whole death declaration process. Jill's personal effects will be handed over upon their arrival, and I'm assuming funeral arrangements are forthcoming in the next couple of weeks.'

'So soon? They can't wait?'

'Their daughter. Their decision. Grief counseling will be made available to them, and other BSAA crew members upon request.'

'This isn't happening.'

'As a close acquaintance I will extend the grief services to you, as well as your brother.'

'We don't want your damn counseling. You have to continue the search.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way. Your choice. I've gotta' go. I'll let you know when Chris arrives. I have other matters to attend.'

'Like plotting my brother's crucifixion?'

'You hold on there just a damn minute, missy. Who the hell do you think you are? Let me explain something to you. I didn't cause this five-alarm fire. Chris did. He's done nothing but push, push, push, for every assignment related to Umbrella, Spencer, human bio-testing; you name it, he's asked for it.'

'He's been very vocal about his contempt. Derogatory statements made prior to his deployment were enough to get him booted as mission leader. I stuck my neck out, went against my better judgment, after Chris begged me, to let him go on this assignment. A deal amongst friends I sorely regret I made.'

'There is no proof. Not one ounce of anything that places anyone other than Jill, Chris, Spencer, and three unlucky people sitting in a cooler, at that manor house at the time of the deaths and Jill's disappearance.'

'He damn sure didn't beat himself.'

'I'm not saying he did. His injuries may have been the result of a subjugation attempt-'

'Don't you dare say it.'

He'd said it anyway. 'By Miss Valentine, in order to stop a murderous rampage.'

'Son of a bitch.'

'You want my advice. Get some good third party representation. Chris is going to need it, after the hearing.'


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Wesker

Wesker did a jig, a jolly hop step toe tap peppier than Gene Kelly singing in his damn rain. Smoother than a Fred Astaire waltz across slippery floors wearing socks.

Everything poppin' up roses in winter. A cup of Joe coffee day gone double mocha latte with a dash of mint in the space of twenty-four very productive hours.

All things considered; if it weren't for the sting in his bicep, the stitch of pain in his thigh, and the half moon scar on his forehead, he'd tap dance on the ceiling and Samba straight to the moon.

Nameless drones in white lab coats turned their heads as he soft-shoed down the windowed hallway. Nothing like the look of hazmat suits, and the gleam of fluorescent lights, in the morning.

A flash of auburn red caught his attention. Wesker stopped mid-jaunt. He did a double take and peered through bulletproof glass. Doe brown eyes looked up from a clipboard.

His heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. The initial rush of excitement at the prospect, no matter how ludicrous the possibility, of staring into Claire Redfield's liquid aqua ocean eyes, was fettered away in a bust of disappointment and flood of anger. He would damn Claire Redfield to hell, if he were the final judge, jury, and executioner of her soul, for the sporadic thoughts of her his brain injected into his daily routine.

He likened the random mental intrusions to a ping-pong ball batted off the walls of his mind. Each time he swung the girl away she bounced off the surface and sprang back to hit him again.

His cheek muscles relaxed his grin into the customary, stoic straight line of his lips. Today belonged to him. His triumph. And although Valentine's capture was nothing in comparison when he considered his master plan as a whole, she was his wine to savor all the same. He would not have his grapes soured by thoughts, and physical reminders, of a woman who, for the time being, was beyond his control.

A tiny glimmer of his former grin returned. Besting the walking protein shake billboard advertisement Claire called brother had been easy. Chris was all talk and fist. He lived in a damn goody gumdrop world of right and wrong. He was always right, and everyone else was always wrong. They'd thrown their punches. Traded their insults. The results of their altercation were as predictable to Wesker as the sun rising in East and setting in the West.

Besting a virtuous paragon presented more challenge. Greater finesse. Wesker relished the challenge. He thrived on the fulfillment of the moral destruction that awaited Claire Redfield in the mundane existence she called a life. He'd find out what exactly she was made of beyond sugar, spice, and everything nice.

Wesker pressed an intercom button located next to the window. "Technician Hobbs, a word, if you please."

The head researcher in charge of this particular clean room crew rose from his workstation. He quickly retreated into the adjacent scrub area and stripped away his protective gear.

Wesker strolled ten paces. He folded his arms across his chest and waited for Hobbs to exit out the scrub room double sliding door.

Hobbs glanced around the empty hall. He pushed his glasses from the tip of his nose onto the bridge. "Is there a problem, Sir?"

There was just the right amount of nervousness in Hobbs' voice to please Wesker. People should fear him. Fear the power he wielded over them.

The doughnut shaped imbecile knew there was a problem. His knowing made his question moot. Wesker didn't stop to comment on the weather, join fantasy football pools, or stand around a water cooler and gossip about how hard some low level Timmy was banging an even lower level Susie.

Wesker came straight to the point. "The woman with the red hair. I want her removed from this facility."

Hobbs craned his head. His gaze darted over each figure in the window as though there might possibly be more than one woman with red hair and he wasn't sure to which one Wesker referred.

"Lauren?"

"I did not ask for her name. I asked for her removal."

"B-b-ut she just got here. She was transferred from the Paris facility. Her husband is terminal. He's being cared for in a local clinic. She needed to be closer to him. She waited two years for the transfer."

Wesker narrowed his eyes. "Her convenience issues are not my concern. I am not the overseer of a bleeding heart sanctuary."

"Bu-"

Wesker took a step forward. "Say another syllable and you go with her." He tapped a finger against his chin. "There has been some talk about renewed efforts underway in the South Pole region. A good researcher to lend a hand might be beneficial to the needs of our organization. Would you be interested, technician Hobbs?"

Hobbs' lips parted, and then instantly clamped shut. He lowered his head.

Wesker patted him on the shoulder. "What a shame. I will keep you in mind if another such opportunity arises. Quality people such as yourself are so difficult to find."

He turned swiftly and left the middle aged researcher to distress over his current, and future prospects. Submission without the use of force was a gift that kept on giving. He wondered how many sleepless nights the chubby stump of a man who called himself Hobbs would lose over a handful of words. _Enough to monitor_?

Wesker punched in the door code to the lab located at the end of the hall.

The low-pitched breathing machine whir and the heart monitor blips told him Jill had survived their cannonball plunge.

He whisked a chair from under a desk and wheeled it over to a gurney surrounded by a maze of plastic tubes and an IV stand on either side of her bandage wrapped body. He snapped his fingers and the no name medical technician who kept watch over his newly acquired prize passed him a clipboard.

Wesker flipped on the overhead lights and lowered himself onto the chair. He scanned the first and second page. As expected she suffered massive internal injuries, despite his best effort to shield her from the impact of the fall. They'd resuscitated her twice. The next forty-eight hours were critical. A full surgical team would have to be placed on alert.

The third data sheet held quite a surprise. A revelation that turned his frown completely upside down. Christopher, it seemed, had been doing more in his spare time than plotting his downfall.

Wesker lowered the clipboard. "Where are the fetal remains?"

"They were disposed of in the bio medical waste bin."

"Who gave you permission to dispose of the tissue?"

"It wasn't viable for testing. A glob of immature cells. They-"

"You were not asked to make a determination on the condition of said cells. Remove the tissue. I want it photographed."

"May I ask why?"

Wesker's smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. _Why not_? "This years Christmas card to a very dear acquaintance."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

A Dash of Leon and a Pinch of Ada

He'd discovered the flat terrain a damn bit easier to navigate than the low hills and rocky trenches thrust upward on the edges of the never-ending horizon. Out of nowhere they appeared, like pop up in a poorly programmed video game. Blink, and the earth folded itself into sloped, plateau peaks steeped in crumbled red clay soil.

The rises became less of a random obstacle and more a hindering nuisance the further they ran. He dreaded each one. His thighs burned. His feet felt like they were anchored in a strip of molasses slathered in a generous topcoat of quicksand. The mad dash over clefted, wind worn mounds the muscle pumping equivalent of wading in knee-deep snow, both directions, uphill and down.

Dragging an exercised challenged man, who Leon swore had two left feet, exacerbated an already tenuous situation. Downing didn't have a Devil's chant in church in keeping himself upright and moving at the same pace in which Leon hauled his ass. He'd seen overweight girls in middle school gym class run a quarter mile, half walking, faster than the arrogant idiot he had reattached to his wrist.

Leon wasn't sure which part of: these men aren't chasing us because they thought it might be fun, and just for toodles they had nothing better to do, Downing refused to comprehend. Would he understand it better when they emptied his brain out the side of his head?

Rapid release spray and pray machine gun fire riddled the ground. Bullets nipped their heels. Ammo blasted dirt clods struck their ankles.

They crested a hill. The last round had been close. He wondered if the next round would bring the bite of a bullet as it tore through his calve.

Leon jerked on the handcuffs. "Jesus, Downing. Come on! Move!"

Downing bent over. He clutched his side with his free hand and sucked down oxygen in deep gulps. "Listen here," he panted. "Maybe you were a track star in a former life, agent Kennedy but I, unfortunately, was not."

Leon stooped to Downing's level. He shoved his nose in his face. Perspiration beads trickled down his forehead and dripped onto the tips of their noses. He waved an arm at the two figures gaining ground in the distance. "See those men. See them. Those men didn't follow us out here in the middle of no mans land because they want to offer an invitation to dinner. We're not playing desert laser tag. They want to K-I-L-L us, Downing."

"Says you, agent Kennedy. I'm fairly certain those men don't want to kill me. In fact, I'd be willing to wager my life they're here to K-I-L-L you. I, for one, wouldn't mind putting a fair bit of distance between you and I, and whatever target you've got painted on your back. So how about you," he shook the handcuffs, "undo the restraints. We go our separate ways. If you're still alive when this infernal sun goes down, and we happen to cross paths, I owe you a Coke."

Leon grabbed him by his collar. "You listen to me, you dirty, rotten, sell-out, I plan on making it out of this hell hole with my brains safely tucked inside my skull if I have to drag your sorry ass face down, kicking and screaming, behind me every rock, rise, hill, bush, and cactus step of the way!"

"Yet another threat. May I suggest anger management?"

Another round whizzed by the clump of weeds at their feet.

"Damn it, Downing! Move!"

Downing slapped at Leon's hands, and when that didn't release Leon's grip, he plopped down on his rump like a petulant child cruisin' a temper tantrum. "Nothing doing." He looked at Leon's holster and then waved at their pursuers. "I think I'd rather take my chances with the men with the bigger guns."

Leon glanced at the heavily armed duo swimming in heat waves. They'd stopped to catch their breath next to a small rock outcrop. They passed an object back and forth between them. Leon squinted. The larger of the two tilted his head back. Leon licked his dry lips. _Damn it to hell_! The cocky bastards were on a water break. So confident in their ability, and in the final outcome, they'd decided to slow up for a refreshing chug without fear that Leon and Dr. Tortoise legs might actually escape.

"Have it your way, Downing." Leon jerked his arm forward. Downing's dead weight body dragged down his body as though he had morphed into an off balance, shuffling Quasimodo-Igor amalgamation.

Downing slapped at Leon's trousers. "This is outrageous, agent Kennedy. Say goodbye to your career. When my attorney-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Leon interrupted. "When he finds out about this, blah, blah blah."

##

She cut a white line in the sky. Tail smoke sputters dotted the wild blue yonder with puffs of exhaust from the tired engine that tugged her over a desolate expanse that rushed by in a dusty, rust colored haze. The sun's glare cut through the cockpit window casting refracted, glinted light fragments over the dashboard and the controls. Thank God for her custom made Serengeti aviator glasses. Not being blinded, with style, had never felt so good.

Two specks on her two o'clock swung into view. "We meet again tall, not so dark, and handsome," she whispered into the mic attached to her headset.

She leaned into a sweeping turn and eased the nose of the plane lower.

She'd told him to move his fine behind, and apparently he'd taken her advice. They had a descent head start. The two figures bringing up their rear were a good hundred yards away.

With the flick of her wrist she lifted the latch over the button for the control valve to the canisters of Sarin gas bolted to the underside of the plane.

The toxic gas cocktail wouldn't be enough to completely stop the viral infused monstrosity that continued to call himself Krauser, but it would be enough to throw his nervous system into an uncontrollable disarray long enough for Leon and Downing to reach her when she landed.

##

Leon glanced over his shoulder. A fast moving black blip rose above a plateau and scuttled under a flock of circling vultures.

Downing pointed at the object, growing larger, and louder, as it raced toward them. "One of yours, agent Kennedy?"

Leon shaded his eyes. _Ada_? '_Bout time_. Technically not 'one of his', but damn, close enough.

The plane's outline exploded into view as it rattled into a banked turn overhead and charged straight at the two men still guzzling a gullet full of thirst quencher only a touchdown away.

The crop duster's riveted belly inched lower and lower, until the tread on its wheels hung suspended in the air only inches from the ground, blowing the clay soil into mini dirt cyclones spiraling across the earth.

Mr. Machine Gun and Mr. Uzi tossed what appeared to be a canteen and raised their weapons.

Tin can shooting gallery pings echoed above the engine sputter.

Author's note: Many thanks to those who have read. Kudos to those who were kind enough to leave a review. Best wishes to all for a joyous New Year filled with wondrous excitement and endless possibilities.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Memory Lane

Chris Redfield drank his Jack straight. Watered down whiskey was for pussies. He'd sooner smoke a bag of potpourri than buy vanilla flavored smokes. Men with 'murses' slung over their shoulder were wanna be transvestites too chicken shit to take a sex change plunge, and judging from the lack of male briefs in the laundry room he must have been on an underwear optional agreement with his free swingin' balls.

He'd gone the roundabout with women. Random Mary's and brunette Jane's good enough for a double bag Saturday night, but not good enough to break Sunday bread with Claire in the light of day.

He'd searched for a woman with enough sandpaper grit to smooth his raw temper, and although she didn't quite fit the Suzy bread baker mother role, apple pies lined up on the sill, what he'd stumbled across in Jill did provide him the black and white blended perspective he needed in order to take baby steps over his moral fine line and see the world in shades of gray.

They'd shopped for a ring a month before he and Jill had left. Prowled jewelry store counters searching for the one of a kind find he determined worthy to grace Jill's finger.

Claire didn't mind being a Guinea pig in Chris' quest for the perfect engagement band, but if she had to try on one more ring to see how it looked while being worn, and have the salesperson ask when they were getting married, she intended to shoot herself in the foot and let him mush on without her.

Did he fork out for the center cut half carat in the platinum setting that he'd gone back to look at every day for a week?

There'd been no announcement. Chris never said. Jill's finger never sparkled. Now, never would. She was gone, and with her Chris' chance at the normal life he'd been denied the night their parents lost their lives.

_Must have been ni_ce, Claire thought as the sun rose higher on the bedroom wall.

Chris inherited the meat and potatoes of the memories of their parents. He'd described their likes, their dislikes, their mannerisms, their affection; painted vivid word pictures of what it was like to have two people shower you with pride and devotion. Claire got the burnt off pan scrapings, photographs and the remembrance of a Halloween night gone Grim Reaper wrong.

It would be easier on her throbbing head and red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes to let the day run its course. Pull the blankets over her head, hunker down, and pretend nothing happened. Brilliant lemon drop yellow rays bled heat into her blankets. Reality kept creeping back. Her brother was on his way. The royal fuck up in England had deposited a garbage truck loaded with problems right on the Redfield doorstep.

Chris would need a lot of gasoline to clear the landfill he'd been bulldozed into, and she wondered, with Jill's disappearance, possible death, if his bruised body and grief stricken mind would be up to the challenge.

Claire threw back her comforter. A shower and a shot of caffeine left her exactly where she ended her night. There was nothing to do except wait, and in the Redfield universe busy was good for the soul.

Today's agenda in the keep herself busy barrage was the garage. Sooner or later, most definitely sooner knowing Chris' lack of love for hospital settings, he'd order the house emptied. Goodbye neighbors she'd never met, hello strangers two States away, don't bother bringing a housewarming gift, we won't be around long enough to unwrap it.

Claire flipped on the light. Space for two cars relegated to see thru bins and magic marker labeled boxes stacked as high as the ceiling. All the things they had learned to live without that make a house a home.

They'd midnight moved three times after Rockfort. Miserable, hurried affairs Chris rationalized with a payback is imminent logic.

She tried to reason with him, explained that it didn't matter where they lived. If Umbrella, or any other bio weapon organization, had deep enough pockets to construct global research facilities, and fund a third world country equivalent in highly paid researchers, they were certainly capable of finding their home location wherever they went. So, they might as well live where they pleased. Alias' included, of course.

'Not a chance,' he'd said, while she organized their belongings during move number three. He pointed to a pile of boxes. Trucks, and a group of beer buddies, showed up twenty minutes later.

This one made her mad. She'd picked this house. Started to decorate this house. Selected wallpaper. Chose a paint scheme. Planted a garden. Well, tried to plant a garden. She'd discovered it was a daunting task to grow and nurture living things when they required more attention to survive than a hurried splash of water in between flights.

She reached for a cardboard stack buried behind the bins. The cardboard was wedged tight. Claire jerked on its folded flap. Her elbow smacked a box. The leaning tower of cardboard Pisa collapsed. A random object hodgepodge clattered onto cold cement. Claire rubbed her funny bone and kicked a half inflated football into a heap of old clothes. "Fandamtastic," she muttered.

She knelt down, tilted the closest box upright, and started stuffing. A thirty-minute clean up and restack quickly sidetracked by item induced trips down good ole memory lane.

Here was Chris' moose ears beer hat, a Thanksgiving favorite. She fiddled with the creased antler crushed sideways over the front bill of the cap. Too many years stored under the weight of every other useless item in the box had left it permanently limp. She let the antler fall back into its new orientation, but instead of tossing it aside in a garbage pile she knew she would eventually make, Claire placed the cap on her head and tucked her stray hairs under the brim.

Here was his cassette tape stash, a musically varied collection that ran the gamut from R and B to Rock and Roll. She used to look forward to Friday nights. Her nightly homework ritual and his work worries slid away in thumping bass beats pumped through Chris' old, walnut cased made in woodshop speakers.

Mixed in with the cracked cassette cases were a few of Chris' former favorite VHS tapes. Action movies and Kung Fu kick fests featuring protagonists and antagonists in unrealistic situations that caused Chris to go into 'movie commentator' mode when they watched them.

Prime example: China Wars Three. For starters, as Chris was more than happy to point out, China looked an awful lot like suburban California. Second, and Chris made this point quite clear, nobody, and he emphasized the word 'nobody', jumped from a car doing a hundred twenty miles per hour onto the roof of another vehicle, kicked out the window, got a sucker punch in on the driver, and climbed into the driver's seat while navigating a twisted, mountain slope.

She was never sure what made him laugh more, the poor lip sync, or the way the movie bad guys held their weapons. 'Look at him,' he'd shout at the screen. 'Dude's never fired a gun before in his life. And that guy, that guy over there, I'll bet you a million dollars right now he's never lit up before. Look how he's holdin' his smoke. What a dumb ass.'

Good times, very good times. The Chris he used to be before Arklay. Before Umbrella. _Jill_. Before there really were such things as monsters lurking under a bed.

She placed China Wars Three on top of Bloodfist Six 'the bloodiest Bloodfist of them all' according to the back of its case.

Then Claire saw 'it'. She lifted an oversize garment from the bottom of one of the clothing piles. "How on earth…" she mumbled as she held the cardigan outstretched in both hands. "Yep, as God awful as you were the first day I saw you. What're you doing here?"

##

She was thirteen. The room in the STARS office that served as their official headquarters as stuffy as her stopped up nose.

She was grateful for the temporary olfactory crash. Sniffles and a runny nose a minor inconvenience, a price she gladly paid, to be spared from smells she had come to know as, "guy smells;" Hot 'n spicy burrito burps, bean dip farts, and cologne splashed over body odor trapped in a space no larger than the Redfield living room.

She'd finished her homework early and now played what she called, 'the waiting game.' Simple as non-destructive and, with Captain Wesker in his office, as quiet as possible, activities designed to whittle away time while she waited for Chris to go off duty.

First up, Chris' desk. A paper cyclone had rolled over its coffee cup ring stained surface. Weeks worth of unfinished reports were scattered from one end to the other. Sir Neat and Orderly he was not. Claire waved a pencil over the mess as though it were a magic wand. _I dub thee Sir Pigs A Lot. Lord of the realm of Sty_.

She organized the clustered heap with the same gusto she used to clean their home. Wondered if Chris realized it was thanks to her they had not yet succumbed to botulism, and not due to some random cleaning fairy that appeared out of thin air in the middle of the night and made mess disappear.

Second up, a new Jill rendering, for Jill. Art had been a grueling chore this semester. Third hour the only class she dreaded during the day that didn't come quick enough so it could be done and over with just as quick.

Redfield's weren't artists. Stick figure drawings plastered on the fridge at home made it clear their kind of art belonged stuffed in a drawer and not on display in a museum.

They weren't musicians either. Off key shower renditions likely to have the neighbors call the police to report a noise disturbance.

But, what Claire Redfield lacked in Da Vinci and Beethoven skills she more than made up for in Joan of Arc passion and determination. Try, try, try, like the Little Engine that Could.

Unfortunately middle school didn't offer diligence as a course class. And last time she checked her teachers didn't give A's for a practice till you puke mentality.

She set the poorly proportioned Jill sketch on Jill's desk. Tomorrow it would find its way up onto Jill's corkboard, push pinned over the other less than perfect caricatures Claire created over the last two months.

Good deeds done for the day, and thirty-five minutes left to spare, Claire plopped down on a chair with wobbly roller wheels and gave it a hearty, and what she considered a not too terribly squeaky spin.

Vickers' head popped up like a spring sprung Jack-In-The-Box over a partition that separated his desk from Chris' for what must have been the twentieth time that day.

Claire rotated around. There was a blown up topographical chart of the city and the surrounding mountains tacked on the wall above the communications equipment. If Vickers wanted to take a look at it then why didn't he get up and do it?

Captain Wesker's door shot open. Cheap, crooked one-inch aluminum mini blinds rattled in the window frame.

Claire grabbed the edge of Chris' desk and stopped mid-turn. Her back snapped arrow straight. Vickers' hand froze above a stack of papers.

"Miss Redfield. I would like to have a word with you."

A big, fat booger droplet inched its way out her nose. She reached into her pocket. _Dang, no hanky. Great. Just friggin' great._ _Suck it? Swipe it_? She eyed her sweater sleeve. _Back of my hand_? _Ooh, no. Gross. _She took a deep breath and slurped the offensive germ laden moisture all the way past her stopped up nose and down the back of her throat.

Wesker crossed his arms over his chest. "Anytime today, preferably now, will suffice."

Claire slowly lowered her feet onto the floor.

Vickers cracked a sly grin beneath his downcast eyes. "Dum de dum dum dummmm," he whispered under his breath as she shuffled by his desk.

Wesker waved her into his office. He pointed at a chair.

Turned out it was the most uncomfortable chair her butt had ever graced. The rigid spindle back burrowed through her sweater and into her spine. Her eyes narrowed. Nothing like Wesker's chair; a wide framed, double padded head and armrest behemoth that made the one she sat on look like it had been constructed out of leftover timber found beneath an underpass and assembled by a two year old wielding a plastic hammer.

Caught in the moment, and her youth, she was unable to process the deeper meaning of her less than comfy perch in relation to Wesker's chair. Claire chalked the splintered contraption up to rudeness. The Redfield's didn't own the nicest of furniture, or the latest and greatest household items, but they still had the common courtesy to offer a guest in their home the part of the sofa that wasn't covered by a blanket to hide the holes in the cushion. Maybe Mr. Wesker didn't know how hard the chair was on the butt? Maybe he didn't understand the pain it sent rolling through her back?

It would take three years before her brain connected all the dots. Looking through Wesker's window to see a STARS member, usually her brother, fidget and squirm on top of said chair. On one such occasion it finally dawned on her the whole idea was to make the person unfortunate enough to plop down on its rigid frame feel somehow less than human. Less worthy. An early insight into Albert Wesker's mind gone unnoticed by everyone around him.

Her gaze darted around the room. Paper stacks arranged in orderly piles on his desk. Pens, cap side down, in a holder next to the tray labeled as his in box. A mug with steam rising in thin wisps over the rim set on a wooden coaster.

Claire tilted her head. A cartoon bear in slippers with droopy eyelids graced the front of his mug. The caption read: I hate mornings.

According to her brother Captain Wesker hated everything. Why single out mornings? The phrase should have read: I hate (blank) like the little fill in word story books Chris left in her Christmas stocking as a stuffer.

Wesker slammed the door. The mini blinds vibrated.

He walked to a cabinet in the corner and dialed in the combination to the lock. Much to her surprise he withdrew what appeared to be a blanket, a beige knit ball of out of date ugliness covered in bold hand-stitched poinsettias. It belonged draped over an elderly woman's couch, not hanging in a guy's locker next to his bulletproof vest.

He set the blanket on the desk and plucked a tissue package from a drawer.

"First things first." He pulled back his chair and lowered himself onto its plush seat. "May I ask what it is you hope to accomplish in sucking your post nasal drip up your nostrils every two seconds when it is much healthier and more efficient to expel the discharge?"

Adult words. _Crud_. It meant a broader attention span. No faking. She'd have to pay attention, or she'd accidentally say 'yes' when the correct answer was 'no.'

He pushed the package across the desk. "Blow your nose."

She hesitantly scooped up the tissues and tore off the cellophane wrapper.

He winced at the snorts of her booger blowing parade, and waited the duration of two good cough hack attacks before he spoke again.

"Second. Sit up straight. Slouching is poor posture. Show me, and your back, some sense of respect."

_Easy for you to say. You don't have Mr. Splinter carving a hole in your spine_.

He took a moment to order his thoughts as he stared at her over the rim of his mug. When he began Claire jumped half way off the chair.

"Can you keep a secret, Miss Redfield? Or, more appropriately, a confidence? A bit of information exchanged between us that will stay confined to you, me, and the walls of this room?"

_Secret_. Her ears perked to the word. She unconsciously scooted to the edge of her seat. Now, he spoke teen language.

Claire told more little white lies than a crack addict chewed gum. Not by choice, or the random thrill of seeing if she could pull one over on some unsuspecting fool. She told them out of necessity. After school 'dance' translated into after school 'orgy' (she had to look the word up in a dictionary) according to Chris, but after school 'study hall' meant excellent student and another A on her report card.

"Your brother is one of my best officers."

Claire nearly fell off the chair. She gripped the edge with her fingers to steady herself.

"His dedication and tireless devotion, not only to his coworkers, but the citizens he has sworn to serve and protect, unrivalled by anyone I have ever met."

"And his sense of family responsibility and obligation merits special praise. He was dealt a horrid hand at a young age and has managed to draw a few cards to bolster the odds in his favor at achieving some measure of life success."

"I have a deep respect for your brother. One, that I find, I do not share with his colleagues. Out of this respect I went against my better judgment and agreed to the current after school hours situation in regard to you, and your well being."

"Your brother did not feel comfortable leaving you to your own devices at such an impressionable stage of development." He glanced up from his mug, and took a good, long look at Vickers. "And in this day and age, I am inclined to agree."

"Your brother assured me that in meeting your needs there would be no interruption or distraction from the daily operations within this office."

_Stupid, squeaky chair_. "I'm sorry," she sniffled.

"Sorry is not the issue." His gaze shifted from his mug to her face, and then a tad lower. He sighed, looked away, and shifted in his chair. "The issue is two …"

He stopped mid-sentence and reconsidered his words. "Has your brother discussed the topic of the so called birds and the bees? What happens when little girls grow up? Certain developments that do not go unnoticed to a male eye?"

Claire fidgeted on the seat. _What the heck_! Yes. No. Embarrassingly so. An emergency trip to the drug store to obtain her first 'girly items' with Jill a recent fiasco best left never mentioned again. She tugged her bottom lip with her teeth. One shrug in place of a direct answer coming right up.

"I am not surprised given his protective tendencies as far as you and your upbringing are concerned. I do not blame him. Young women such as yourself have always historically been both the pillar and the bane of their male protectors. "

Claire held her breath. It was the first time someone referred to her as a woman. Not kid. Not squirt. Not sis. Woman. She felt instantly older. Bolder. Confidant. She raised the shy downcast tilt of her head.

"Three hundred years ago Christopher's barbaric behavior would have been justified. Women were commodities. Brokered. Traded. Alliances, pacts, treaties, accumulation of wealth; these were all born on the backs of your gender. Girls thrust into marriages on the cusp of young adulthood, and forced to endure a lifetime of servitude, and loyalty, to a man they might not care to have stable their horse, much less share their bed…"

_What on earth does history have to do with spinning on a chair_? _Is he talking about sex? Oh, God. He's my brother's boss. Grossssss_. _Stranger danger_. Her brows furrowed. _Wait a second. He's making a point. What point? Ugh! Oh…crap…a lecture. I get enough of these at home_. She looked at the wall-mounted clock and tapped her foot. _Move. Move. Can't he find something to lecture Vickers about? He's always doing something stupid. He's probably in the other room doing stupid right now._

Wesker snapped his fingers. "Miss Redfield, did you hear anything I have said."

She was relieved to admit she hadn't. So much for paying attention. One good shrug on deck.

"Has your brother explained the differences between male and female? Procreation? What goes on behind closed doors, as it were?"

Her face bloomed scarlet red. Before Chris met Jill his double baggers had turned into double pillows mashed against her ears to block the moans flowing out the crack underneath Chris' bedroom door.

"Kinda," she said out the side of her mouth, with a dip of her head to let her hair hide her face. Chris' big adventure into puberty land had been less than a stellar job well done. She received a Christopher approved book: Are You There God, It's Me Margaret by Judy Blume and a five minute before bed question and answer session that skimmed over just about anything she needed to know, and ended in a stern 'ask me in twenty years.'

"Rephrase your response," Wesker commanded. " 'kinda' is not an answer. Either your brother did or he did not. What if I was to stumble upon a body and someone were to ask me if the person was dead. 'Kinda' would not be the appropriate reply. Youth does not exclude a proper, and correct, use of the English language."

_Crud_. Claire sighed. Chris tried. He really tried hard, but those conversations were as embarrassing for him as they were for her. She didn't blame him for his lame attempt. Somehow, though, her gut told her that the pervy jerk staring at her across the desk might not like the word try. _What the heck difference does it make to him anyway? Stop staring at me. Dang it! This is worse than sitting at the table with a bowl of spinach. I can't choke this down. I'm gonna be here forever. Say something. Anything_. _Make it stop_.

Into her head it popped, and out of her mouth it came. "He didn't sign my form."

"Which form?"

"The one I got from school so I could participate, you know, in the presentation."

"And which presentation would that be?"

Claire stuffed the tissue up to her nose. "I have the paper in my backpack."

Wesker leaned back. "Retrieve the form."

Claire slid off the chair and slunk into the outer office. She grabbed her backpack off the floor near Chris' desk and returned to Wesker's office.

She winced at the thought of sitting down. _Do they make ice packs for sore tushies_?

He spread the creased pink Xeroxed invitation out in front of him. "Changes. Your body and you," he read aloud.

Claire thought she heard amusement in his voice, but the complimentary smile that normally came as a result of such a tone did not follow.

"A special presentation for young ladies in grades seven and eight." He pushed the paper aside. "Sounds magical. I see they even had a guest speaker from Planned Parenthood, and refreshments courtesy of the PTA."

"He didn't sign my form, so I had to go to study hall during the assembly."

Wesker sipped from his mug. "I see. Well, if the invitation is any indication you were probably better off. Christopher has the right idea, but executes it for the wrong reason. You are being pigeonholed into weakness. Christopher wants you to use him as a crutch. It gives him purpose. He employs medieval logic in a modern era."

"A young adult must have some measure of freedom. There must be choices. These choices, and their resulting consequences, establish the difference between right and wrong. Some lessons cannot be learned by example. Some lessons must be experienced."

"Out of curiosity Miss Redfield, what did you do while you were in study hall? Were you not the least bit curious about the presentation? Would it have been nice to be able to make healthy, informed decisions based on facts, and not girlish lunch table guesswork? Did you put forth the effort to discover the information your brother thought so gallant to deny you in his efforts to shield you from the perversions of men?"

"Huh? No…." _Dang, this is worse than my brother. Woah! Is he spying on us at school? How does he know Amber' big boobies' Mcgee knows everything there is to know about sex? He's creepin' me out. I wish he'd just yell at me, or something._ "I did math homework."

"Why?"

"Because I had math homework."

"No, I mean why did you not seek out answers on your own."

"I don't know."

"Why not visit the public library after school to satisfy any curiosity and glean knowledge? Why did you leave your personal development and understanding of perfectly natural biological functions at the discretion of a man who, although he may have your best interest at heart, is not capable of letting you mature into the young woman you are meant to be?"

She'd tuned out after 'library.' The message delivered in the last sentence in his statement overshadowed in confusion and childish ignorance.

"Because it wouldn't do me any good. My library card's restricted."

"How so?"

"My brother knows the librarians. He dated two of them. Laura works in the afternoon. Pamela works at night. If I take one step out of the kids section my brother will know about it."

It was at this point he lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Claire glanced at the clock. _For the love of God, why won't you move_? She craned her head over her shoulder. She stared at the door that led into the outer office. _Open_. She squeezed her eyes shut. _I'm gonna' count to ten. When I open my eyes that door is gonna' open and my brother is gonna' walk through it. One. Two. Three-_

"Miss Redfield, are you always this inattentive at school?"

_Geez, Louise_. _What is with him_? She found all new respect for her brother. No wonder he slammed his car door when he came home from work and went straight to the fridge for a beer.

_Tick. Tick. Tick_.

Claire shook her head. "No... I don't know. I don't think so." _Only when I don't feel like talking about certain subjects, you nasty jerk._

"I do not know sounds very much like another version of 'kinda'." He sighed. "Your lack of attention has made it extremely difficult to broach the topic I had wanted to discuss in a kinder, gentler manner. I fear, much like in dealing with your brother, perhaps it would be best to be blunt. "

Wesker pushed the blanket across the desk. "The fashion abomination you see before you is a forgotten leftover remnant of a former secretary."

Her eyebrows scrunched together over her nose. _Huh_? _Wait? It's not a blanket? Get out! How does someone get this big? Crud. I ate two packages of Twinkies today. If I ate two packages of Twinkies every day for ten years, how long would it take before I get this big?_

"…Mrs. Marchand's lack of style equaled her lack of work ethics. Her resignation saved me considerable trouble firing her. I am positive my files jumped for joy as well. A STARS member took it upon themselves to leave this little memento as a testament to my less than fond memories of the not so dearly departed Mrs. Marchand attached to my locker. I was not angry over the matter. A little comedic levity in the workplace can be a welcome relief in stressful situations. I let them have their joke at my expense. I kept the garment. "

He unfolded the beige bundle and held it out to her.

_Holy cow_. "It's ginormous."

"I believe Mrs. Marchand would be considered an extra, extra large using clothing measurement guidelines. A polite way of saying water buffalo in my opinion."

Claire stifled a giggle. _Ten water buffalos are more like it_. She pictured it now, clothing tags emblazoned with animals as a sizing chart. Giraffe could be used for a tall. Whale for the big and the tall. Mrs. Marchand's buffalo size for the over forty female not quite large enough for the over fifty hippo.

"From now on, from this day forth, when you are in this office you shall wear this wrap."

"What? Why? It's too big. It'll drown me."

"That is the idea, Miss Redfield. I want you covered, shall we say, from stem to stern."

"I'd rather wear my own clothes. There's nothing wrong with my own jacket."

"The one with the busted zipper? The one you are not wearing?"

"I've got a sweater on, Mr. Wesker. It's hot in here."

"A sweater that does nothing to hide two very noticeable bumps on your chest."

Claire's face exploded raspberry red. She'd seen the white padded training bras with tiny pink rosettes in the center that the other girls had strapped around their breasts. Maybe went a little green-eyed monster over the itsy bitsy satin panties hugging the hips of her friends in gym class.

Chris had failed to take the hint in the department store ads she'd left open to the ladies section on the kitchen counter. Too shy to come right out and tell him she needed a bra she'd settled on, what she thought, was a perfectly acceptable solution; baggy shirts.

She slowly raised her arms and unconsciously folded them over the nubs on her chest.

"The point I have been trying to get you to absorb into your lackadaisical Redfield brain is that without knowledge and the resulting self awareness that comes at the root of knowledge you will become a victim."

_Oh, no. Please don't let him say the R word_. _I'm begging_.

"The reason your brother's colleague," he nodded toward Vickers, "has been so generous with his head bobs has everything to do with your lack of proper ladies undergarments, and not his love for acting like a complete jackass when you enter the room. I could easily ban you from this office and remove temptation from his mind, but it is not going to solve the problem. In your current state you would still be vulnerable to every lecher who laid his eyes on you and decided you were innocent enough, unaware enough, and old enough to meet his needs. Therefore," he pointed at the cardigan, "my solution. We will call it the poinsettia resolution."

Claire shook her head. _Stupid Chris. Way to go_. "It's ugly. I hate it."

"You were not asked to like it."

"I promise. I'll have my brother take me shopping. Just as soon as he gets paid."

"I have counted no less than five stores within a two mile radius of this office. Your brother could have taken you at any time to any one of them. I have no reason to believe he will take you anytime soon. Sorry, Miss Redfield, the poinsettias stand."

Claire tossed the hideous cardigan on his desk. He wasn't her brother. He wasn't her father. She didn't work here. She didn't have to listen to a thing he had to say. "You can't make me wear it."

Wesker's eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair and gently rocked it back and forth while he contemplated her resistance.

"Are you familiar with the term 'barter', Claire?"

She shook her head.

"Another word for bargain. You give me something I want, and I will grant you something you need."

"I don't need your fugly sweater."

He ignored her comment. "So, here is the deal. Every day after school when you arrive in this office you will come straight to my locker. I will give you, and you alone, the combination to the lock. You will don Mrs. Marchand's fashion faux paus as though it were your very own."

"No wa-"

He held up his hand. "In exchange for your compliance I will grant you this." He reached into his wallet and pulled out a card. "My personal access pin number good at all of the computer terminals in this building. Think about it a moment. Let the idea soak into your under utilized sponge brain. I offer the world at your fingertips. The price is a mere few hours of your daily vanity, and your oath that the discussion we have engaged in today stays between us."

_Wow. Computer access. Really_? Her gaze slipped back and forth between the card and the cardigan. _No, thanks_! Her lips parted…_Wait! Computers are expensive. Chris can't afford one. Sucks to go to the library to work on my reports. I can get the work done faster if I can look stuff up. I can do it here! Heck, by the time Chris gets off work I can have all my homework done. Amber big boobies isn't the only one who should know stuff. So it's a little too big, and butt nasty looking. Mr. Wesker probably won't take no for an answer. I don't want him to ban me. If he bans me then he'll tell Chris why. How embarrassing. I don't want Chris to get a lecture. At least this way I get something in return._

"Deal," she said.

Wesker pushed back his chair. "Excellent." He extended the card.

"Now? You want me to wear it now?"

"No time like the present."

Claire gulped. She picked up the cardigan as though it were a pair of skid marked undies_. Ewww_. She slid her stick thin arms into the stretched out leg-sized armholes, wrapped the front to the back, and wound the attached belt around her waist three times.

Mr. Wesker seemed pleased. He nodded his approval and escorted her to the door. "As I said, the pin number will grant access at any terminal. I would advise against using your brothers. There is no reason your search history needs to catch whatever attention your brother possesses. Do not make the mistake in assuming your forays onto the Internet will be left completely unmonitored. You may go where you please, but I will draw the line at lewd images, porno, and unauthorized downloads."

"What's porno?"

His hand paused on the door handle. "You have the means. Feel free to look it up."

She turned the card over. "What does the A stand for?"

"Albert."

She glanced sideways. "You don't look like an Albert."

"Pray tell, Miss Redfield, what name do you find more fitting?"

"I don't know…maybe a Victor. Definitely not an Albert."

"When you figure it out please, by all means, feel free to enlighten me with the revelation…"

##

"How 'bout A for asshole," Claire muttered. She tossed the cardigan aside. Her brother had done the world a favor. One less Albert Wesker was one less cow paddie to avoid.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Dusted

Marco unscrewed the lid on the canteen. He tilted his head and chugged. His Adam's apple bobbed like a buoy.

He wiped his hand across his lips and offered the canteen to Krauser. "Go juice, Jack?"

"Go juice' was a special antigen cocktail blend. A tart tasting smoothie of amino acids, enzymes and whatever voodoo hocus pocus Wesker threw in just for kicks, designed to keep a viral enhanced body from disintegrating into an untimely puddle of blood and melted bone. The usual delivery method was an intravenous line with a continuous feed sluiced from a bag sewn onto the body above the abdominal aorta.

Krauser accepted his share with a disgruntled frown. It smelled worse than dirty pussy and tasted foul as rotted road kill. This shit hadn't been properly tested in the field. He preferred the safety of the bag and the reassurance of a constant antigen flow. Wesker was gambling. Staking Krauser's renewed life, and the skin on his back-literally-on an experiment.

Marco pointed at Leon and the doctor, hunched over and spent, standing on the ridge top.

They were in the midst of an argument. Agent Cucumber Cool's voice teetered on the brink of exasperation. "Damn it, Downing! Move…"

Krauser smiled. Professor pain in the ass was the least of Leon's worries. He'd let them sweat it out just a little while longer, and then, when he was ready, dice Mr. Cucumber into minced relish.

"What a couple of morons. Didn't you say you used to run with the jackrabbit?" Marco slapped Krauser's shoulder with a good-natured swat. "Get it, run."

Jack clamped a palm over Marco's hand. Jagged, icicle pointed tentacles burst from his knuckles. Coal black, oil slick tendrils seeped into the gap between Krauser's fingers like warm syrup. Pulsing. Squeezing.

The whites of Marco's eyes devoured his eyelids. "It was a joke, Jack. A stupid fucking joke."

"Apologize."

Marco planted his feet, wrapped his free hand around his entangled wrist, and pulled. "Let go!"

"Apologize."

"I'm sorry. Jesus, I'm sorry. It was a joke. Get it off me. I'm sorry."

Krauser's lips curled. "Apologize, for touching me."

The tentacles slithered up Marco's forearm, and coiled bubbled, sticky, malodorous ooze around his bicep. His pretty boy tan blanched bell pepper red. The skin seared like bacon in a pan.

"Burns, don't it?" Krauser said.

The tendrils wormed their way across Marco's chest. His shirt threads devoured in a caustic, slurping slime glide. They crept over his collarbone and twined around his neck like a vine.

Marco plucked at the tentacle pressed into his windpipe. His fingers slid into its slippery warmth. The tips came away crimson.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed. The mottled color in his face faded ashen white.

The protrusions recoiled in a whiplash snap. Marco fell to the ground. He gagged. Coughed. His throat dripped blood onto the viral gunk and funk splotches splattered across his face and chest.

Krauser's head turned to the sky and a buzzing sound rising up and over the crumbled rock shelf where Leon and Downing stood. An airplane dropped into view. As though it had fallen from a trap door in the clouds that skirted the edge of the ridge.

The pumpkin orange painted hunk o' junk was sinking fast. Headed straight for them. Churning up dust mounds and belching gray smoke tufts from its back end.

Wesker had said there might be a few players out here lookin' to score on this particular shag and bag, and to treat 'em all, friends included, as foes.

One scrub flyin', soon to be St. Peter greetin' or-depending on religious preference-lower level life form reincarnation comin' right up.

Krauser tossed his canteen, gripped his gun, and swung his arm up. _Shit nails and spit shells_! He'd ask questions later. "Fire! Take that son-of-a-bitch down!"

Marco obliged with a half-hearted volley delivered from his knees.

Bullets tinged the propellers with a popcorn kernel in hot oil pop.

The crop duster rolled right. Its wing sucked perpendicular. Orange underbelly exposed. It swiftly rotated back to horizontal, and took a sharp dip to the left.

"Again!" Krauser yelled.

The nose thrust upward in a blast of smoke. The body of the aircraft pitched onto its side, rolled upside down, and back to upright in one fluid motion. The wings rose and fell with the rhythm of a seesaw, riding an invisible fulcrum in the sky.

Ten yards out the front of the plane shot down in a spiral on a collision course with the earth and leveled out the last breath before impact. Its wheels suspended in the air a few feet above the ground.

"Move!" Krauser shouted. He dove for the dirt.

Marco injured, blood flowing out his neck faster than bullets out of his gun, didn't move fast enough. The wheels trimmed his head closer than a bald man's barber, batting his skull from his neck like a baseball off a tee.

A thick white veil, jettisoned from the underside of the plane, enveloped them in a smoky haze.

The tingle started in Krauser's eyes. Battery acid tears poured out his tear ducts rained red rash down his cheeks.

His throat was on fire. Molten lava burn cascaded down his windpipe. Noxious fumes rushed into his lungs. The air was heavy as concrete and dense as lead. It was choking him, strangling his oxygen supply.

The tingle spread to his arms and legs. The muscles pulled taut to the bone. His back arched upward, caught in a seizure cramp spasm that started in his calves and quickly worked its way up his spine. Rigor Mortis stiff, he began to shake. His body threatened to quake the flesh from his bones.

Cries caught in his throat. Limbs jerked. Tentacle offshoots erupted through the blood pustules on his skin, flopping beside his incapacitated body in a wave of rippled tremors.

###

Leon couldn't have helped but admire her aerial cartwheels. Graceful tricky stick dodge and weave maneuvers that carried the same flair as the woman behind the controls.

"I don't know, agent Kennedy. I think I am now officially afraid of flying. The thought of getting into any airplane piloted by someone with that kinda' loop-de-loo crazy carries the same appeal as eating my own liver with a spork."

"Bon a petit," Leon replied. "This is one gift horse I'm glad we've got. That's our ticket out of this mess. If you had any sense of gratitude you'd be on your knees thanking your lucky stars."

"Ladies first."

As the smoke parted Leon could just make out the blurry outline of one of the pursuers fish-floppin' on the ground.

Ada had done an about face and now chugged and buzzed back in their direction.

"I think this is our cue, agent Kennedy."

It was the smartest, and least annoying thing, Downing had said all day.

"I agree," Leon replied. "Come on, follow that plane."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

A Dirty Deal

Leon and Downing skidded down the hill in a rapid freefall slide. Ada waited in a wind scoured basin, prop spinning, raven feathered hair blown across glistening strawberry hued lips and sunglass shaded eyes. Sassy sleek. Her slim body pressed against the side of the plane, one leg bent at the knee, boot heel rested on the faded paint. Only Ada made a crop duster look like a Jaguar.

Her presence here was something of a mystery, a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit within the big picture border.

He needed to see her eyes. Her eyes were key. Guard up? Guard down? Was she a Heaven sent angel of mercy or a Hell spawned demon in disguise?

For the first time since they began their three-legged race Downing manned up and led the charge.

Ada stepped out of the shade of the wing. She raised her arm. "Stop right there." The gun's red pinpoint laser sight flashed across Downing's chest and hovered over his heart.

Downing stopped dead in his tracks.

_So much for her ey_es. Lesson learned. _Hands first with her, always_. "Ada, what the hell are you doing?" He thought about a quick grab for his weapon, sitting, waiting, tucked in the holster strapped beneath his shoulder blade. Thought about it, and dismissed it. He wasn't going to shoot her anymore than she intended to shoot him.

"Sorry handsome, it only seats two."

It didn't take an MIT genius to figure out which 'two' she meant. Leon hung his head and exhaled a long breath. _Enough is enough is enough_. Their handcuffed wrists shot into the air. "We'll share a seat. I'm willing to risk it." He took a bold test step forward.

She fired.

Leon ducked, dragging Downing down on top of him. He reached for his gun and grabbed a chunk of Downing's midsection.

Downing squealed. "Are you trying to get us killed, agent Dumbass?" He swatted at Leon's hand, scrambled sideways, pushed himself off Leon's back, and yanked Leon to his knees.

"I'm not," Ada said. "You'll have to find your own transportation. I've bought you time. Don't waste it in idle conversation with me." She motioned to Downing. "Release him."

Leon spit dirt out the side of his mouth and rose to his feet. "Not a chance."

The laser beam settled on his thigh. "It's not a request. With two legs you've got a chance. With one you have none. Please, Leon, set him free. I won't ask again."

"Hadn't we, and by 'we' I mean you, better do as she says?" Downing said.

Leon fingered the key ring on his belt. "I'm not doing anything until I get some answers, and they'd better be damn good ones."

She shrugged. "Three teams. Two objectives."

"I'm sorry," Downing interjected. "I count two teams. Bubba and bigger Bubba, and you. Am I the only one present here with a basic elementary education?"

"Incorrect," Ada replied. "Krauser and Marco represent one team. I am the second. A sweep team isn't far behind. They're ghosts. It's their job to make evidence, your disappearance for example, vanish. I picked up a partial transmission when I landed. They've located your broken down vehicle and are loading it into a truck as we speak. The trail you left behind won't be hard to follow."

"Wait a minute. Time out." Leon shook his head. "Krauser? Jack Krauser?" _Well, fuck diddly uck! Today keeps getting better and better!_ Next he'd whip off her mask and find out she was really old man Withers, and she would have gotten away with Downing too if it weren't for that pesky Leon. Maybe instead of a Scooby snack she'd let him, and Raggy, take a ride in her plane? "That's impossible. Krauser's dead."

An eyebrow arched above her sunglasses. "Are you sure you know what you think you know?"

"I know Krauser's dead."

"Did he look dead to you when he was trying to blow your head off?"

"Explain it. How did he get here? What is he doing here? Dead men don't walk."

"Ask Wesker. He's the architect of Krauser's resurrection, not me."

"Are you daft, agent Kennedy?" Downing said. "You do realize you're fresh off a zombie rampage at WhilPharma? Zombies are, in fact, the living dead. Reanimated corpses. Or did you mistake the word 'zombie' for 'hombre' and think you've been shooting diseased bandits this entire time?"

"I know what zombies are, Downing."

"Then is it really so far fetched that this…this Krauser person, whoever he may be, could still be alive? Reborn with a greater, better, purpose than your average everyday Joe nobody?"

"Point for the Doctor," Ada replied. "What he said."

_Fair enough_. Lord only knew he'd witnessed far stranger occurrences in the line of duty. "That may account for Krauser." Leon jerked Downing back to his side. "But it doesn't explain him. We tested his samples. He's got nothing. He's not worth your time, or my life."

"I'm sorry, agent Kennedy. I happen to take exception to that remark."

"Tell it to your lawyer."

"Are you sure you tested what you thought you-"

"That's it!" Leon charged half the distance between them, towing Downing like a child on a kiddie leash. He whipped his gun from his holster faster than a Wild West gunslinger and pressed the barrel to Downing's temple. She wanted to play, well he could play too.

Downing's jaw dropped open, and for once, praise God, there was blessed silence.

Leon jutted his chin at Ada. "You. Spill it. All of it. In English. And you…" He pressed harder. "Your next word will be your last."

"Downing isn't selling virus. He's brokering control. Taking the 'un' out of unstable. The new scientifically engineered genetic mutations suffer from cell degeneration and degradation. Wesker is a prime example. He's become erratic. Volatile as nitro in a boxcar riding rickety wooden rails."

"My gun ate a slew of zombies for dinner forty-eight hours ago. They seemed just as brain chomp happy to me."

"I'm not referring to your garden variety zombie or your run of the mill licker. I'm talking about the evolution of virally enhanced human bio weapons. The ones, like Krauser, genetically altered to retain not only their base human form, but also their higher cognitive thinking and brain functions. The future of BOW manufacture and warfare. Downing's research is the fundamental cornerstone in the quest for viral perfection. It's the key Wesker, and a handful of researchers like him, need to create an unstoppable breed of super soldier. A destructive force unlike anything this world has ever seen."

"All the more reason to put a bullet in his head right now."

"And run the risk of Wesker's tyranny? Crown an apex predator as your Lord and Master?" She lowered her gun and removed her sunglasses. "You have a choice, Leon. Right here. Right now. Hand Downing over to me, and I will see to it he falls into the hands of an organization that will ensure a tight grip on Wesker's reins."

"And my second option?"

"Toddle off with Downing and pray Krauser, or the ghost recons, don't get their grubby paws on you."

"That's the best idea I've heard since the sun came up. Sold."

"Consider carefully. This is Wesker's first attempt. If failure is unacceptable, how many more will follow? All it takes is once for it to be a success. He won't stop, and the next time you might not be around to make a difference. Now, why don't you be a good little knight and crusade the Doctor over here, so we can be on our way."

"Says a sneaky corporate spy who has a history of bending the truth. How do I know this isn't some big, fat load of bullshit? That you're not going to deliver him straight to Wesker."

"You don't, but you have my word that I'm not."

"Your word is about as useful to me right now as a wet fart in a colander."

"I won't deny Wesker thinks this pickup is for him."

"You're going to double cross Wesker?"

"Wesker made me an offer. The organization that hired me made me a better one. Nothing wrong with fat cash stacks in my Swiss bank account."

A loud cry pierced the air. The pained howl of a wounded beast caught in a trap.

Leon chanced a glance over his shoulder. His gaze swept the top of the rocky ridge for movement.

"You're out of time. Decide," Ada prompted.

_Fuuuuuuuuuccckkkkk_! He holstered his weapon and snatched the key ring from his belt.

Downing, without the threat of his brains painting dirt, took a deep breath and was back to business as usual. "No hard feelings, agent Kennedy."

Leon inserted the key in the lock. "Maybe not on your end."

The handcuffs slid away. Downing rubbed his wrist.

"You," Ada said to Downing. "Round the other side. There is a field kit on the passenger seat. Pass it to me, and then strap in."

"With pleasure." Downing gave Leon a pat on the back. "Good luck, agent Kennedy. I have a feeling you're going to need it."

He darted to the plane. Free hand held high waving a middle finger salute for a goodbye.

"Better get those twinkle toes moving, Leon. There is an underground cave system in the canyon cliffs to your Southeast."

"I've got a better idea. I get in that plane with Downing. You drop us at the next city you fly over."

"No can do, handsome. Downing is my biggest payday in ten years."

"Is it always about the money, Ada?"

"Today it is."

She tossed him a water bottle and a compass.

Leon caught the bottle in mid-air. The compass landed at his feet. _Now all I need is MacGyver and a toothpick and I'll be good to go._

"Follow the path to its exit, and head North."

"Don't suppose you'd be willing to part with a phone? Mine's missing. I think I lost it during our ten mile freedom run."

"Why don't you stand on top of the hill with a huge neon sign hanging over you with the words: HERE I AM pointed at you? You're better off without it."

She slipped her glasses on and turned to climb into the plane.

"Ada, wait."

"No more time for talk, handsome."

"Tell me one thing. If Wesker sent you for Downing, then why in the hell did he send Krauser?"

"That's the million dollar question isn't it? I honestly don't know."

"Downing I can understand. Me? I'm no viral bartender. I've got nothing Wesker wants, or needs."

"Are you sure about that? Maybe Wesker wants to drink from the bar you do tend?"


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The Hero

The script was written. The characters assembled. The scene set. He stood before a mirror in his tux and tie. Clean-shaven. Scrubbed. Pressed, dressed, and ready to go. His uncooperative armpits sweat circles beneath his tailored jacket.

The day threatened rain. An overcast sky grumbled with the weight of swollen clouds.

He imagined her standing at the stained glass window in her walnut paneled chamber down the hall, cursing spring for its defiance and its audacity to disobey a year of her well laid plans. Murphy was a heartless bastard and his Law never favored joy.

In truth, and in secret, he favored a simple service. A casual affair catered to relatives and a culled list of close friends. Friends so close he'd trust them with a straight edge to shave the pubic hair on his balls.

But, with a mother with too much time on her hands, and a father with more money than he could ever spend, the simple service dreams had taken an ostentatious turn to pomp and superfluous decadence.

They'd invited everyone from the pool man to the insurance agent. Procured a Versace gown that cost five times more than the gas sipper commuter Corolla he drove when inclement weather forced him to fancy four wheels instead of two. Rented a three-story river rock and ivy covered Chateau-booked nine months in advance-in the boondocks. One-day admission to the venue the price he paid his landlord in twelve months rent.

The dinner menu was French. _Fucking French_! Foie Gras, Poitrine de canard rotie aux epices, if he couldn't pronounce it he sure as hell didn't want to eat it. A direct bitch slap to the face of the cocktail weenie and beer connoisseur crowd he'd invited and another not so subtle jab at his lower class upbringing courtesy of the always, call a golf ball white and he'd call it black just to spite you, Arthur, and the always, women excuse themselves from a room when they burp, proper, Dina Valentine.

He knew there'd be trouble when he saw the gift registry lists. Stores with exorbitant price tags that shot his stomach straight out his ass.

Knives were knives. Ten dollars. Four hundred dollars. They all worked the same. You cut shit with them. Grab one from a drawer; peel potatoes, cut tomatoes, dice a steak, and done.

There was nothing wrong with his four-slice toaster. Two of the slots worked fine. Nothing wrong with his three dollar, blue light special, towels either. They were wide enough to cover a backside, his butt cheeks weren't flapping in the wind, and thick enough for a quick after shower pat down. Mopping skin or sopping an oil stain, they served their purpose.

The love of his life had never baked a pie in her life. No reason to start now. The money invested in the bake ware set designed to grant her non-tart making ass success would be better spent on a box of frozen burritos and a year supply of Ramen noodles.

Morning essentials, at least in his mind, were not two hundred dollar juicers and five hundred dollar espresso machines. A quick fuck to tame his wood, a cup of Folgers's instant, and a wad of moderately soft two-ply, was all his body required to start the day off right.

There was a soft rap at the door, and before he could grant entrance, Claire poked her head into the room.

"Are you decent?"

His breath held in his throat. Concrete and stucco folded over the paneled walls, cutting the room in half. The oil paintings sucked beneath hot rod and bikini babe calendar girl pin up posters. The polished cherry hardwood furnishings dissolved into a twin bed.

He was sprawled on a camouflage pattern comforter, Playboy in hand, pants around his ankles, when there came a tap at his door. He realized, much too late to absolve an embarrassing situation, he'd forgotten to lock the door.

'Are you decent?' She nudged the door open, without the requisite pause to give him the option of a simple yes or no. 'I need you to run to the mar-'

There he lay. Hand on dick. Red on face.

Her eyes went wide and then instantly, mercifully, her head slipped back behind the frame.

'Geez!' he'd shouted as he hiked up his pants. "Can't a guy be left alone!'

'I'm sorry, Christopher,' she'd said. 'I need you to run down to the market and fetch me a quart of cream.' There was a long pause. For a moment he'd assumed she'd walked away. Then he heard the floorboards creak beneath her weight. 'Oh, and by the way, I think you'll find that activity is more enjoyable with a girl. Please return your father's magazine to the bottom drawer of his nightstand when you're finished.'

He'd learned two very important things that day. His mother had more 'Grace' than Grace Kelly, and to always, always, lock the damn door when his trousers were down.

"Chris? Is everything ok?"

_Ok? It was better than ok_.

In Claire's voice, in the loose curls piled on top of her head, in the delicate cheekbone hollows and the gentle tilt of her eyebrows over her Caribbean ocean eyes, there stood a living, breathing, flesh and bone carbon copy of their mother. The one-person gut wrenchingly absent on an otherwise perfect day.

"It is now," he said.

"I wanted to check on you. See how you're holding up. It's almost show time. Nervous?"

"Chris Redfield, nervous? You've got the wrong guy."

"Your tie's crooked."

He looked down. _Lopsided as a limp dick. I'll be damned_. He loosened the navy blue knot and evened out the strand ends as he chanted a rhyme in his head. _Put fatty over thinny, bring fatty around again, bring fatty through the loop and tuck him down the drain._

Claire hitched the length of her teal, chiffon dress up to her ankles and crossed the room, head held high and shoulders back, in a stride reminiscent of their mother.

If she had any doubts. Questions. A lingering obsession to discover the personality and mannerisms she shared with the woman who gave them life, Claire need look no further than her reflection.

She gently pushed his hands out of the way. "Here, I'll do it."

"Since when do you know how to tie a tie?" He didn't really want the answer to the question, but she obliged him anyway.

"Oh, I know a gentleman who finds my expert tie-knotting abilities come in quite handy every once in a blue moon."

"Perhaps you'd care to introduce him. I'll knot him a tie."

"I said 'tie', not noose."

"Then you'd better tell Leon, oops did I say that out loud…I meant your gentleman friend, to start wearing a clip on."

"I should say the same thing to you. Who on earth taught you, Sir Fumble Fingers?"

"Pop."

Her hands dropped to his lapels. Fresh pain threshed from a festered wound and ground into glacial silence between them.

_Damn it to hell_! He was tired of treading ninja steps around her shattered heart. Tired of apologizing for the privilege of being born first and guardian of the memories that matched the family snapshots in the faded Polaroid's stored in a box and rested on the top shelf of his closet. _Here it comes_.

"Must have been nice." She jabbed fatty through the loop and cinched the knot to asphyxiation levels around his neck.

The most dangerous four words in her barb arsenal. Her envy lock and loaded, targeted to rip him a new guilt sized hole.

"Claire-"

"Oh, don't bother. I already know where this is going."

He clasped his hands over hers. "I'm all ears. Where, Miss Clairvoyant Claire, do you think this conversation is headed?"

"I'm being childish. Over reacting. Ruining your wedding day."

"Wrong. Come here." He guided her to a chaise lounge. "Have a seat. There's something I want to say."

"You always have something to say."

"Fair enough." He patted the space beside him. "Join me anyway."

"Chris, don't. Not today. Let it go."

"That's what I want to talk to you about." He hung his head and sighed. "The thing is, I'd love to 'let it go'. Be able to look back on my childhood with some semblance of peace and fondness." _All or nothing, Redfield_. "You won't let me, Claire."

"Me? I'm not stopping you."

"The truth of the matter is, I knew them and you're resentful because you didn't."

She yanked her hand away. "How dare you!"

"Please, Claire. Let me finish. Hear me out."

"Like I need another lecture."

"I'm not trying to hammer home a sermon. Listen to me. Talk to me, not as your older brother, but as a friend. Two adults engaged in conversation. Is it so much too ask?"

Her gaze drifted toward the door and shifted to the chaise. He knew he had her. The irresistible invitation to speak with him as an equal conquered her urge to run.

He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, palmed his hands, and twirled one thumb slowly around the other. "If I could trade, I would."

"Chris-"

"If I could give you the memory of a mother brushing the tangles from your hair, or a father tucking you in at night with your favorite bedtime story, I would. Point me in the direction of the nearest time machine and dial it back to my conception. You can go first. Be first. Fail first."

"You're not a failure," she whispered.

"Maybe not in your eyes." He paused, gaze held unblinking, steady, on a fixed point on the wall. "You don't know how I've prayed for a chance to go back to that night. I want to relive it. Not as some scrawny, acne-faced pussy hiding in a closet with a little girl because she's too small to jump from a second story window and I can't leave her behind, but as I am now. If today were yesterday those bastards don't get past the front door. Mom and Pop would still be alive. You would have a lifetime of memories, and a better example than me to call your family."

"That's not true. You're the best brother a girl could have. You're the best man I know."

"I see. So, every time you threw a teen temper tantrum when I said no, you really meant you loved me when you said you hated me and slammed your bedroom door in my face? Well, now I know. Silly me. I could have sworn it was the exact opposite." _And, you're wrong. Pop was the best man I knew._

"I only said the things I did to hurt you."

"Bravo. Mission accomplished. It stung, Claire. Knowing I was all you had and I wasn't enough."

"You were always 'enough'. I just…just…"

"Needed more? I get it. I do. A girl shouldn't learn how to paint her nails, figure out how to braid her hair, or shop for a prom dress with her brother. I'm sorry to say I did the best I could, and my best wasn't, isn't, good enough. I don't measure up, Claire. I didn't inherit half of Pop's spirit, or come within a mile of Mom's generosity and empathy. I can admit it. It ain't easy, but it's the truth. I'm afraid I've been a piss poor substitute as a parent."

"I am the woman I am because of you."

_God, damn! I need a cigarette_. "No, Claire. You are the woman you are because of them, and in spite of me. You're the reason my nightmare will never end. Don't you understand? In your walk, in your smile, in your laughter, in your scowl, you are the embodiment of everything they were. When I hear you, I hear him. When I look at you, I see her. You are a constant reminder of everything we've lost. My failure. I wasn't old enough, tall enough, strong enough, to save them."

She leaned her head onto his shoulder. "It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong. You can't keep blaming yourself."

"Not when I have you to do it for me." He rose. "If you need a pillar to lean on, I can be your column. If you need a mountain to shelter you from the wind, I can be your peak, but what I cannot do is continue to walk on eggshells around you whenever their name is mentioned. I'm sorry you got the short end of the stick. I'm sorry you'll never know them in the way that I did. I'm begging you, Claire. I'm pleading with you from the bottom of my heart to let me share them without you turning into a teary-eyed gargoyle. I'll be better for it. You'll be better for it."

For the second time in the space of five minutes there was a knock on the door.

Claire quickly swiped her hand under her eyes. Chris gestured to her nose and passed her a tissue from a box on the sideboard.

"It's open."

Surprise visitor number two was Barry. Broad as a sea captain, with more grays in his beard than he had on his head, he too was dressed in his better than Sunday best and ready to cart Chris down his marital road.

"They want to start in five…"

"It's ok. Come on in, Barry."

Barry's gaze traveled from Chris to Claire and back to Chris. "You sure? I didn't mean to interrupt."

Chris grinned. "You know how women are. They're not happy at a wedding unless they're crying."

"Uh-huh. I just came to get you. They wanna start in five minutes. The natives are getting restless. We've got to get you married so we can all get something to eat. I'm starved."

"A fine day when the best man is more worried about his empty stomach than his best friend."

Barry patted his ever-expanding waist. "Gotta feed the beast."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you. Chili cheese dogs and fries are not on the menu."

"I don't care what I shovel as long as it's free."

###

The guests were assembled on the back lawn. The scent of rain and fresh cut grass mingled with the gentle warm up strums of rosined bows across violin strings.

Her attendees were seated on the right. The bride overflow shuffled across a paved brick walkway and settled into the nearly empty rows on the left. His rows.

Heads turned as he and Barry ambled down the rose petal lined avenue.

Chris ran a shaky hand through his hair. _Grit? Sand?_ His fingernails embedded with tiny grains beneath the clipped tips.

The wind shifted, and with it came an ocean brine salted tang. A seagull flock swooped down beneath the clouds, circled the chateau, and disappeared over the top of the oak trees.

His collar pressed into his windpipe. Chris gripped his tie, looped a finger into the knot, and gave it a swift tug.

Barry leaned in. "Chris?"

"I can't breathe. I think Claire pulled it too tight."

"It's fine, Chris. It's nerves. Happens to everyone on their wedding day."

Pain pierced his side. The weight of his tread rolled a stabbing jab shockwave through his ankle.

The alter, a pulpit set atop a raised platform at the end of the walkway, swam in blur. The priest, facial features devoured in haze, diverged into two halves and melted back together with a blink of his eye.

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

"And they say only bride's get the jitters. Don't worry, Chris, not much longer. You'll feel a lot better after it's over and we get some food in you."

"Something's wrong, Barry," Chris groaned between ragged gasps for air, a touch of his hand upon the older man's shoulder to lend his suddenly aching leg support.

"Keep it together. Stand fast. In ten minutes you'll be a new man."

_In ten minutes, I'll be a dead man._

The orchestra struck up the Wedding March. The nameless faces turned to a balcony on the third floor. Jill emerged through the french doors and began her decent down a vine wrapped, wrought iron staircase.

The appropriate "ooh's" and "ahh's" lost in the ear grating wail of out of tune instruments. The cellist stroking the sound of crashing waves rolled onto a storm-rocked seashore.

Jill, hand draped over Arthur's arm, marched toward the platform in slow, even steps. Her dress billowed in the breeze. The layers swept from the front. She wasn't stepping. She was gliding. Walking on air.

_I'm going fucking crazy_. Her feet floated above the paving stones. Water dripped from the tips of her sequined shoes. Wet splotches trailed in her wake.

"Barry, what the fuck is going on?" Chris turned. He stumbled backward and wrapped his arms around one of the platform's wooden rails to keep himself from falling. "Jesus Christ!"

In the limbs of the nearest tree Barry was strung up like a butchered hog. Flayed open from chest to pelvis. His entrails wrapped around his head like a noose, his body swaying in the breeze.

The preacher spread his arms. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

Chris spun around. _It can't be!_ "Pop?"

His father, rising up and over the pulpit, as though the church vestments he wore were fashioned out of helium infused cloth.

Jill hovered up the steps. Her veil folded in wavy ripples over her face. She hummed the off key orchestra beat. The words garbled. Butchered as Barry.

_Here comes the bride... Here comes the bride…. Here comes the bride his ass! Here goes the groom!_ Chris scrambled to his feet.

She lifted the veil's hem and tossed the headpiece to the wind.

His scream, ready for him to push play, was stuck on pause in his throat. The double check-should I be shitting myself while I run for the hills-this is weird, but maybe it will all work itself out, delay between his eyes and his vocal chords.

The skin on her face was cracked, peeling. The flesh on her cheeks balled up on the ends like little strips of shaved wood. Eye socket hollows bleeding wet sand on the platform at his feet.

"Lckk…" She gagged, coughing water.

Small fragment shards pelted his face. He rubbed his thumb over the broken, ridged surfaces. _Seashells_.

"See…" Her stomach heaved. "What…" Her lower jaw fell open and a geyser of water, and a muck riddled strand of seaweed rushed out. "You've done to me."

His father's body spiraled upward, spinning faster and faster. The robes unfurled in a blinding, white glare explosion that shook the platform on its hastily erected foundation. Black smoke streaks spread out across the horizon, rubbing pockets of sunlight from the clouds.

"Like father, like son." A familiar voice heckled.

His nemesis erected in his father's place. Albert-_who the fuck invited him_-Wesker sucked out of the haze, levitating in the thick, charcoal stained wisps curled up and around his waist.

Gray and red dots plopped into the foreground. A dozen pinstriped umbrellas floated to the ground.

Chris squinted. Not umbrellas. Parachutes. Men in bio suits. Men with guns. Machine guns.

Chris dove for the ground and was plucked, thrown, into the air. His legs shuffled and his arms twisted, turned, pawed at the mist, searching for an invisible handhold to break his fall.

A greasy, slick tentacle, darker than the smoke, shot out of Wesker's hand and latched onto Chris's leg. In a wrist flick he found his back flush with Wesker's back. The tentacle coiled around them like a chain.

In his left ear. "Pay attention, Christopher. This is the best part."

The squadron opened fire. And there was blood. Pandemonium. Women screaming. Chairs upended. Men on their knees begging for their lives.

Good old Art Valentine took one between the eyes. Dame Dina a quadruple shot to her legs that blew them clean off.

Claire's cries rose above the ting of bullets ricocheted off the wrought iron fence. She had broken away from the sheep being cut down on the lawn target practice shooting range. She ran hells bells for the trees. Two soldiers in pursuit.

In his right ear. "What do you think, Christopher, shall I give chase or let the drones have all the fun?"

###

"Med Two to base, do you copy?"

"Copy Med Two, base is reading you loud and clear, over?"

"We are inbound. ETA, ten minutes. Three stable, one critical for transport, over."

"Copy Med Two. Three stable. One crit. for transfer. Med One is enroute. Will rendezvous on the ground."

"Copy base. Requesting air evacuation for crit. patient, over."

"Request acknowledged, Med Two. Bird is in the air."

"Copy base, Chambers over and out."

She leaned over to make out the words mumbled behind the oxygen mask. Something ill? Followed immediately by something air? Repeated over and over. She pried the sheet from his clenched fists, placed her hand in his, and squeezed. "Almost home, Chris. Hang, on."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Mulberry Bush

He didn't remember when the scrotum-pinched three-part falsetto harmonies of the brothers' Gibb started pumping their hi-hat disco tempo in his sun-scorched head.

_Stayin' alive, stayin' alive, ahhh-hah-hah-hah, stayin' alive…Belt it, Andy!_

Rewind two weeks. He woke, fetal scrunched on the corner of his California King bed, to discover the Stairway To Heaven riffs of his Classic Rock radio station, Classic spelled with a K on the sticker slapped over the dent on his bumper, hijacked by sappy soft rock and sentimental love tune infusions.

The radio station had pulled a programming switch-a-roo and reinvented itself overnight as Kool Breeze, a.k.a. all the Gordon Lightfoot and Jim Groce ballads a dissatisfied middle-aged woman, buzzed on box wine and reminiscing high school glory days, would comprehend.

Although he did, but not in public, give it up to poor, dead before his time, Jim. The man was a song wordsmith. His tear jerking Time In A Bottle the best two minutes and thirty-two seconds of You Tube sorrow and regret.

Leon carried the four-on-the-floor Night Fever dance rhythm into the shower, and grooved Tragedy in his fender-to-fender early morning commute; windows up, all the way up. Volume low.

A week after his 'forced', nocturnal and subliminal, introduction to Kool Breeze he casually sauntered into a record store and purchased a best of the Bee Gee's compilation, to the upraised eyebrow of the rockin' his pants low punk kid behind the sales counter, and the sideways glance of an elderly black woman with a Four Tops CD clutched in her pudgy hands.

_Whether you're a mother, whether you're a brother, you're stayin' alive…Damn steel-tipped boots_! They were heavy on his feet. _Sorry, John, no time to bust a strut_. Too tired for a Deney Terrio Hustle bump hip grind.

"Kennedy!"

He startled to the persistent primal howl of his name. Krauser's taunt annoying as the sun.

"I'm still here, asshole…Just stayin' alive," Leon muttered.

He stared out across the flat, wind-whipped plateau and down into a deep ravine cleaved from the red-rock escarpment. Narrow fissure corridors carved between the cragged cliff walls snaked through the valley.

He swiped his arm across his forehead, his determination run dry as his tongue. "It's a fucking death trap."

_Dang straight, Skippy. Feel the city breaking and everybody shaking and we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive…_

##

"You wanted to see me."

His office offered warmth in wood and family photos. A well kept country den charm. Mahogany bookcases. Green and cream checkered wingback chairs.

"Please, come in. Have a seat." He faced the rain-splotched windows, hands clasped behind his back. His normally jovial demeanor was absent in the calm melancholy reticence of his voice.

Newspapers spread across the top of his desk. The Times. Post. Chronicle. None of the front page headlines kind. _TerraSave Angel of Death. Calamity Claire Redfield. Death on Heels._

As usual the photographers managed to capture her at her grimy worst. Terse-lipped. Hand raised to shield her face from the cameras.

"They never seem to catch someone at their best, do they?" he said as though he'd read her mind.

"Not when it comes to me. I think the media goes out of its way to make me look like complete and utter crap."

Her comment earned her the courtesy of his front side and a half smile.

"Keeping busy?"

"For the most part. Yes. No. Eager to ditch the G-men. Leaving my house without an escort would be nice."

He nodded. Said nothing. His non-committal silence worth more than meaningless prattle. The room suddenly smaller, colder.

He lowered himself into his chair. His gaze set on the articles laid out before him. "The reports of your involvement in the Harvardville and WhilPharma incident are rather…troubling."

She noticed the newsprint stains on his jacket sleeves. Smudged black on tan tweed elbow patches. How long had he studied the inflammatory accusations before she arrived?

"Wrong place, right time. I won't apologize for happenstance, or my actions. I have a right to defend myself."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't, and I would expect nothing less than your honesty. An admirable, though these days, outdated quality."

He leaned back. Shoulders sagged. Something percolated beneath his half closed eyelids.

Her Redfield instinct spiked ten out of ten on the _oh shit here it comes_ chart. He hadn't summoned her to hear her side of the story. Spin her back into work rotation. The desk may as well have been a guillotine. Shiny blade poised to drop.

"TerraSave principles, ideals, demand peaceful solutions, Claire. Non-violent resolution."

_Beg? Don't beg? Argue? Let it be?_ How low to go when an unemployment line and a whole lot of spare time waited out in the wet?

"I can't help-"

"Can't help coincidence? Timing? Circumstance?"

"Something like that…"

##

_Trudgin' along, trudgin' along. My legs are really achin', my forehead is a bakin', Ahh-hah-hah-hah…_

He flopped down on his knees in the shade of a lone Joshua tree and surveyed the branched paths that cut through the canyon.

_Eenie…. Meenie... Miney…. Moe_….

_Well, Skippy_?

_Gimme a minute_!

"Kennedy!"

_Thirty seconds_.

He leaned back on his calves and plopped down onto his ass. Head rush blood whooshes pounded pain behind his eyes. _I'm so completely fucked, my goose is pretty plucked…Whadya know, I'm the next Weird Al!_

##

Agent Bartles waited outside the door.

"Come on," Claire snapped. Like a dutiful guard dog he followed at her heels, zigzagging left and right around the waist high separation partitions, to a cubicle tucked into a corner along the back wall.

Her desk faced the room, a panorama vantage point. She had unobstructed view of the entry doors, the outer hallway, the elevator, the stairs, and her fellow clock punchers. No one moved in her field of vision without being seen. Not a blizzard's chance in Hell someone, living or dead, creepin' up on her backside without her knowledge.

A box had been placed on the floor next to her chair. Claire flipped the lid off with the tip of her shoe and made quick inventory of her belongings. Zombie bobble head, last year's anonymous gag Christmas gift, _check_. Rolodex. Empty. _Go figure_. _Check_. Vacations in Paradise calendar. _Check_. Plastic sandwich container with a heart stamped design. _Check_.

She snatched her handmade rose flower topped pen from a cup holder. Angry. They'd rummaged her things. Hers!

She picked up the box and shoved it into Bartle's chest. "Here. Make yourself useful."

"I'm not a tote bag, Miss Redfield."

"You are now. Let's go."

They made their way to the elevator. Colleague gazes branded red-hot embarrassment on her neck. The door couldn't slide closed fast enough to block the twittered whispers and curious stares of her coworkers watching her from the corners of their downcast eyes.

Agent Bartle's arm brushed against her. Another invasion. Her home. Her life. Her things. Her space. "Do you mind?" She took two steps back. "It's called a personal bubble, Bartles. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of mine."

##

His feet were cooked. Itchy. Hot. Begging for a breath of fresh air. His shaky fingers fumbled with the shoelace knots.

_That's not a good idea, Skippy_.

_Tell it to my toes_. He wrenched his boots from his feet and stripped away his perspiration soaked socks.

He leaned back on his elbows and relaxed into the heated breeze and the feel of the dry soil pushed up between his broiled little piggies. _Awww... Like sand on a beach. This right here is heaven. _

"Kennedy!"

_Now what, Skippy_?

He burped and tasted bile. _I don't feel so good_. The inevitable wretch building in the back of his throat in nausea spiked waves.

He'd always assumed he'd 'buy it' with a bullet. Lived with the expectation each sunrise was his last; clean underwear in the morning, a will on file with an attorney, tidy apartment.

His back hit the ground. One arm stretched across his face to block the sunlight streamed through the dried, bayonet tipped fronds of the tree. Never in a million years had he considered his demise would be the result of the lack of a substance that covered seventy percent of the damn planet. Fucking water.

Dehydration was, he discovered, a cruel, cotton-mouthed, clammy-skinned, limb shaking, sweat your pee out your pores, bitch.

##

She promised herself she wouldn't give this shit hole the satisfaction of a meltdown. Not here, not now. There'd be plenty of time to sing the blues, tonight. Alone. _What else is new?_

'Our legal department drafted the following separation agreement. You'll want to read it over. I'll need your signature and initials on the spaces highlighted with an x.'

'Don't do this.' The typewritten words blurred in watery haze. Redfield or not this haymaker hurt. Stung her rejection straight to the heart of her feminine core.

'The decision has been made. It's beyond my control. We can't keep you on board any longer.' He tapped one of the articles with his finger. 'You're publicity poison, Claire. The very antithesis of the image we strive to uphold.'

'I need this job.' _More than you know. Chris out of commission, big trouble brewing. Jill. I'll have nowhere to go to get away from it all._

'You'll find the termination amenable in terms of monetary compensation. Six months pay, vacation, and sick leave. In exchange, you agree you were not on assignment during the Harvardville outbreak and the WhilPharma incident. You were on vacation, and acted on your own accord.'

'It's not true. You're strong-arming me into a lie.'

'A small omission of truth to benefit the greater cause.'

She swallowed the lump in her throat. 'What about my cause? What am I supposed to do?'

He made his way around the desk. 'You're a bright young woman. There is plenty of time to find another niche in life. Consider it a blessing. Continue your education. Pursue a hobby. Six months of freedom to do whatever you like.'

_I 'like' my job_. Technically, now that it was official, her former job.

His hand found her shoulder. The squat fingertips pressed deep into her raincoat folds. 'Who knows? Other opportunities may arise to pique your fancy. Alternatives you haven't explored.'

Her gaze shifted to his hand. 'Such as?'

'You're a lovely woman, Claire.' He leaned forward, fingers trailing up and over her collar. 'There might be something I can arrange once the six months expire.' His lips close to her ear.

_Perverted piece of low-life filth. _Old enough to be her father, hell, her grandfather._ When dolphins grow horns! Fuck you, and your little job too!_ The door didn't hit her in the ass on the way out.

##

Sage and soil. Rock and sky. The swell of a cloud to cradle the sun. His arm fell to his side.

_I think you should get up_.

He cocked an eye open. Whether she was death come to spirit his misery away, or a phantasmagoric mirage conjured in his hallucinatory mind, he welcomed the sweet cadence of her voice. Sat beside him real as the tree under which he lay.

"I can't. I'm spent. I've got nothing left."

_Would you do it for me?_

"That's dirty dice. I'd do anything for you."

_And I would do everything for you._

Now he knew this was a vision forgery. The real Claire would never admit to such depth of feeling for him.

"Except marry me."

Twice he'd asked her. Twice she'd shot him down. He'd never understood the why, only that she couldn't have cut him deeper than if she had ripped his heart out with a bolt cutter and mailed it to him in a box. Maybe a little card tucked inside: You're good enough to fuck, trustworthy enough to share a secret, but not quite up to snuff to share a last name.

_Ask me again when it's over_.

"No, thank you." Stubble for a week. No appetite. Jack Daniels pissed off. A look a like screw to prove just how much she really meant. A little looped Time In A Bottle. He'd pass.

_I love you_.

"You have a funny way of showing it."

_Fear can be a cruel master. It's hard to break free, easy to embrace_.

"What the hell are you afraid of? Me?" And suddenly, he knew. The answer was plain as the vultures circling overhead.

A shadow fell across his chest. Claire slipped away in a dust spindrift. In her place stood Krauser. Burly. Muscles popping out of his veins. He was fresh as a newborn babe and ready, willing, and more than able to kick his ass ten ways from Friday and clear into Sunday.

"Have a nice nap, Sunshine?"

"It was," Leon groaned. "Till you came along. Long time no see, Jack."

"Smartass!"

Ripped from the meager shade with a speed that made the world swim.

Jack's face chiseled in striated lines. Pink pigment scars dotted with quarter dollar pockmarks and the pupils of his eyes bursting in lava orange glow.

"I-" Leon's stomach heaved. "Woul-dn't…" His gullet filled with vomit and a yellow, bile stream flew out of his mouth with the projectile force of a fire hose. Caught Krauser square in the jaw. "Do that if I were you."

Krauser's nose pressed to his nose. His sour breath raked fetid reek over his nostrils. "I ought to make you lick that off."

_Does puke have water in it? If so, sign me up_. He'd blow a giraffe for a nickel to ease the raw burn in the back of his throat.

His body jostled left. Tipped right. Throttled up and down. The earth moved in a hundred different directions at the same time.

"Stop. Please…Stop." _God, make him stop_. "Anything." He pawed at the fingers wrapped around his neck.

"Anything?" Krauser's teeth ground together. His lips curled down in a snarl. "Anything?"

"Whatever you want. Yes. Anything. I give. You win."

He landed on his side. The air expelled from his lungs in a rapid gush. _That's gonna' hurt in the morning._

Krauser crouched beside him. His hand fisted a sopping wet hair chunk and wrenched his head to face him.

"Tell me you were wrong. Admit to me my evolution is superior. Grovel in my glory."

_That's it! He'd chased him half way across a desert for some worship. One good grovel coming right up! Stayin' alive, stayin alive…_


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Karen"

Her fingers twitched against the starched sheet. Her eyelids drifted open. Muted light suspended in a white blob above her head.

There was movement beside her. A soothing voice coupled with a gentle hand. "You're awake. It's good that you're awake."

Different from the voice she heard, somewhere, rolling around in the foggy, just beyond focus, fleeting thoughts in her head.

"A few hours ago I would have bet money you'd never wake up. See, you've proven me wrong. Let's have a look at the numbers."

She blinked and the blurred features of his face popped into slanted view. She liked what she saw. Clean cut. Moss green eyes. Not handsome, but not the Elephant Man either. A couple of tequilas on a Saturday night and maybe, given his seemingly pleasant personality, she might have said yes. Might.

Did she like tequila? She didn't know. It was the first thing that came to mind, therefore it felt right, and it must be so.

"Pulse good. Respiration…" He glanced up. "Well I'd say that's a big ten yes." He flicked his pen over a sheet of paper on a clipboard and hooked the clipboard on the end of the bed.

He lifted the sheet. "Don't worry, fair lady, your modesty is safe with me." He winked. "I'm a doctor, or at least I play one when I'm on duty. Off duty too, if you're into that sorta thing."

He ran his pen along the bottoms of her feet. Her legs stiffened and she involuntarily wiggled her toes.

"Excellent. You know what that means?"

No, she didn't. Doctors were for sick people. Was she ill? Was this a…? She tried to find the right word.

"It means you'll be up and waltzing around once you're feeling better. Shouldn't let legs like yours go to waste. They are fantastic, by the way." He lifted his hand to cover part of his mouth and turned his head as though the quiet room was filled with a hundred eager ears and he wished to impart a secret. "But, they're gonna need a shave. Are you sure you're not French? Bio says American, but I don't know. Your legs say otherwise."

Arms. Face. Back. Every inch of her was sore. Something, a feeling, poked its head through her mental mist. Something had happened. She reached out to wrap her memory around a lone figure etched in black. The shadow receded into the haze, accompanied by the voice of another man, a man much different than the one bent over her midsection.

"Discharge looks good. No clots. I'm pretty confident, given the ultrasound, they'll be lots of baby making in your future."

His latex gloves were smeared red.

Her blood. Sticky and hot between her thighs, rushing out in little gushes that coincided with the thump of her heart.

He unfolded a square cotton-quilted pad, deftly raised her rump, and slid the fresh pad beneath her buttocks, simultaneously drawing the stained pad out from under her.

"I call them bed diapers. Wouldn't want to ruin the mattress. Make you a deal." He stripped off his gloves, wrapped them inside the used pad, and deposited the bundle in an aluminum waste bin. "You stay awake, alert, for two solid hours, get those kidneys flowin', and I'll hook you up with a pair of hospital grade fish net panties. As a double bonus you'll win an industrial sized maxi pad. Give you some dignity. Just a tiny bit. You have to keep the catheter, for now, but I'll drape the piss tube out the side of the underwear. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

Hospital. That's the word she wanted. _Hospital_. _I'm in a hospital_. _Why am I in a hospital?_

She tried to nod, a feeble tweak of her head. "Y..e.." she rasped. Her own voice crippled with the gravel pitch of a two pack a day smoker.

"Now we're playin' for the same team." He patted her shoulder. "Sit tight, gorgeous."

There was the shuffle of his footsteps and drawer rattle. He returned with a fluid-filled clear plastic bag. "This experimental little miracle drug is something I like to call 'super solution'. Better than granny chicken soup. Good for whatever ails ya," he said with a grin, as he hung the bag on a t-shaped stand next to the bed. "You took a hell of a fall. When you landed you suffered blunt abdominal trauma due to the force of the impact. Gave your insides, most notably your spleen, a hell of a ride. I had to let my fingers do the walkin' and the talkin'. I preformed an exploratory laparotomy and was able to surgically repair a severed artery. Lucky you. You get to keep your spleen. You also get some flank pain and tenderness for the next week or so."

"Th..an.." It was all she could manage.

"Don't thank me just yet. We've got a long way to go, but we'll get there." He leaned over and flashed a penlight in her eyes. "Follow the light," he directed.

Next, he held up his hand. "How many fingers do you see?"

The answer waited on the tip of her tongue, but try as hard as she could it wouldn't come.

He sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. "Can you tell me your name?"

She stared at the badge pinned to his lab coat. The symbols were familiar. They made sounds. A word. What word?

"C..an..t..."

"Hmmm. You may have hit your head harder than I thought. The CT scan looked normal, but maybe we'll run an MRI just to be safe. Don't worry about it right now. We'll get it sorted out."

He tucked the sheet around her shoulders. "My name, in case you're curious..." He pointed to his badge. "Is Ryan. Ryan Mitchell. I'll be your technician. Bag changer. Pill pusher. You need anything, anything at all, I'll be right here to get it for you."

She liked his name. Wondered if hers was just as nice.

"On your chart you've been given a temporary assigned designation. I really hate that. Sucks the human right out of a person. I'd much rather call you something else besides AURE452012."

_AURE52012. Me_.

"You look a lot like a girl I used to date in high school. She was a real doll. Her name was Karen. Do you mind if I call you Karen?"

_Karen_. Sounded ok. She could be a Karen.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The Villain

He'd watched them from the fourth floor window. His boot pressed down on helpless, people should know when it's their time to die, Spencer's trachea.

He monitored Redfield and Valentine's clumsy approach with the theme park glee of a child. They battled the elements as much as themselves. An almost irresistible, impatient, urge swelled to meet them on the lawn and throttle the two mismatched lovebirds, and their ill-timed argument, into permanent silence.

Had Christopher suspected? He must have. The man was a danger suction cup. Elephant stampede charge, tusks first, into an unknown without so much as a footnote glance to consider alternatives and weigh consequences.

Like a good Hansel he had followed Wesker's trail right to Spence's estate, and had somehow conned Gretel into taking his always searching for the next sugar rush ride.

Tonight's treat: lead jacketed spice drops. Spence and Valentine eliminated, gone the way of the Dodo. Redfield maimed into submission with a well-placed bullet to his spine. Tagged a murderer, his reputation shredded, Christopher would spend the rest of his Dudley Do Right life mourning the loss of his mobility, and his female Canadian Mounted sidekick.

The way it should have happened. The way he designed it to happen. That is, until Valentine wrangled herself from the brink of obscurity and mustered a Saint savior maneuver. One of the hardest _where the hell did she come from_ hits he'd taken in a very long time. A testament to her determination, and an unexpected four-story plummet reminder that even the most well constructed plans go awry.

He could have easily let the rocks crack her in half and watch the waves slide her broken body into the sea. Instead, he'd done some last second improvisation of his own. He pulled her in tight, wrapped his arms around her, and flipped her on top of him so her back faced the tar black sky.

Three seconds of pure trench coat flapping, terror-filled limbo. Knowing the void rushing by in a speeding streak had a bottom. Seeing the fourth floor sink into the third floor, the third floor collapse onto the second floor, racing down past the treetops, and watching the sandy banks and rocky shoals even out and become almost level with his eyes.

_Side? Back_? The pain would be the same. Viral enhanced did not take the hot bite out of a bullet munching through his intestines and spitting out torn, jellied cord, or the gut-grabbing sting out of a bone snapped limb. This was going to hurt…

##

_What to do about Valentine_? Wesker drummed his fingers on the limousine seat. _What to do?_

_##_

'Karen?' His eyebrow spiked.

The technician bounded off his chair. An oversize index card cluster fluttered to the floor. 'I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in.'

No tremble in his voice. No Sir in his greeting. His apology for his lack of awareness somehow not quite apologetic enough.

This particular disrespectful lab coat fool had the name Ryan printed on his badge. Honestly, if he'd seen one young, eager to prove himself technician he'd seen them all. They were a revolving door of staff members-innumerable to count-forgettable as his personal cleaning service. One inefficient Maria after another rolled into a plethora of can't get it right to save their ass Juan's.

'Perhaps, you were too busy dreaming up fake monikers for our test subjects.'

'Just a little something to put her at ease.'

'Correct me if I am mistaken,' Wesker said, fully aware even on the off chance he were wrong there wasn't a soul within a hundred miles who dared make the mistake of pointing out subtle inconsistencies in his logic, 'I believe your job is to stabilize our guest and see she makes a full recovery. She is no use to this organization damaged. You were not assigned the task of creating a false identity, fabricated in some sense of misguided sympathy, and manufactured from smoke blown out the flat backside you call your ass.'

'My bad. You're absolutely right. Won't happen again.'

This particular ant spoke with more bravado than the usual quiver snivelers Wesker detected, and very nearly came to expect, when he dealt with his drones. The casual tone and flippant slang use reminiscent of a certain redhead that kept his brain humming long into a cold night after a scientific formula ceased to light his imagination fire.

_What to do about Valentine_?

'I've completed a full complement of tests. Ran the whole spectrum. MRI picked up some minor swelling on the frontal lobe. No skull fracture. No blood in the surrounding tissue. Nothing concrete in the scans that would indicate a solid medical reason for her memory loss. Retrograde amnesia. She doesn't remember her name. How she was injured. Basic alphabet. We've done some flashcards. She thinks a circle is a square. Can't put numbers in sequence, but surprisingly recited a recipe for Chicken Kiev. I looked it up. It's spot on, right down to the temperatures she gave.'

_What to do about Valentine_?

##

They'd crashed onto the beach. His teeth rattled inside his mouth like dice in a Yahtzee cup. Valentine bounced from his embrace. His vision exploded in a crackling white and yellow cluster of stars and spots.

When he woke the raging downpour had become a drizzle. Valentine rested a few feet away. Her face buried in the sand. The incoming rolls of ocean wave pounded down and washed over her backside, sloughing her inch by inch into the churning sea.

The ground had done its damage. His legs splayed at unnatural angles. Left leg flayed to the bone, pearl white femur broken in two halves, the jagged edges pushed up and into stringy bits of torn muscle and tendon.

He gritted his teeth, rolled onto his side, and blinked the wet from his eyes…

##

_What to do about Valentine_?

Wesker glanced at his watch. Five minutes to lift off. He'd ditched the leather for Burberry tailored wool. Warmer in this weather and easily blended into the executive business class travelers gathered in the early morning dawn on the Biggin Hill private jet airstrip twelve miles southeast of London.

There was plenty of time to deal with Valentine. He'd left her alive, but not exactly well. Technician Ryan, for all his youthful sass, seemed capable enough. She'd be no worse for wear in his hands.

He strolled across the tarmac minus the extra pep in his step that accompanied his stride when he traveled; tired, hungry, ready to leave the monochromatic gray sky and lush green valleys and hilltops of England far behind.

Seven hours until touchdown at Teterboro in New Jersey. Time to rest, recuperate, shift his thoughts and reorganize current priorities.

_Kennedy_. He owed the agent the introduction of his fists after his jaunt through Spain. A little five-fingered tit for Kennedy's fuck with him tat.

The Captain greeted him with a nod at the top of the ramp and ushered him into the cabin. "We're in the air in four."

His stomach growled to the taunt of fresh brewed coffee aroma, egg, and ham.

"Mind if I join you?"

_Do babies cry in a movie theatre_? Hell yes, he minded! An all too familiar thorn in his foot leaned around a compliment of beige leather seats, jaws ready to clamp around a bacon strip. "Hope you don't mind. I started without you. It was getting cold. I hate to let a good meal go to waste."

_Alex_. Today's in-flight entertainment a nudge above Matt Damon movie reruns and half rung below the pleasure of watching the back of his eyelids. Goodbye peaceful solitude. The next seven hours, six with a good tail wind, a waking transatlantic nightmare.

"This is a private jet-"

"One my company, your generous benefactors, pay out the nose to maintain. If you don't like it you can trot yourself over to the nearest ticket counter and fly commercial."

_An excellent, irrefutable point_. He'd just as soon drizzle his head in honey and stuff it down a fire ant mound than mingle in a crammed seven-forty-seven seated next to a woman who smelled like she wore her Depends on the outside, and an obese body odor magnet tucking generous flaps of flesh down between the armrests. "Of course. By all means, be my guest."

Alex had already made himself at home. Two fingers of Glenfiddich malt in a crystal cut glass. Shoes stripped. Tie loose. Feeding his face full of the breakfast Wesker had ordered, and had very much looked forward to eating.

He'd be damned if he'd stuff himself into a single seat located toward the cockpit and suffer a sore ass and cramped limbs for the duration of the flight. Alex had already helped himself to his meal. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of robbing him his comfort as well.

Wesker unbuttoned his coat and settled into the loveseat-sized chair opposite his uninvited travel companion. Who knew, maybe he'd get lucky and a great big glob of breakfast jam and toast would save him the trouble of choking the life out of this early morning surprise? One could only dream.

"I can't help but notice you're not sticking around for Spencer's funeral," Alex said, alternating bites of ham and biscuit chunks layered in sausage gravy.

_His ham! His gravy! _"I sent my condolences."

"Flowers and a card? Black roses? A sincere declaration of your grief? Did you include an apology?"

"I have done nothing that would require an apology on my behalf. You have drawn a false conclusion." Wesker's eyes narrowed. "I resent the implication."

Alex dabbed his lips with a napkin. "I don't give two flying shits what you resent. I want an answer. Yes. No. Did you have anything to do with Spencer's death?"

On second thought, Pee Pants and Fatty Magee might have been a better option than playing seven hours of hot seat with a representative of one of his largest financial backers.

The engines whirled on with a high-pitched whine roar. The aircraft backed away from the hangar.

"Spencer has been dying for years. He needed no help from yours truly."

"There's a lot of speculation surrounding the incident. And while I don't personally hold you above suspicion, rumor has it a BSAA operative by the name of Redfield killed him. A Chris Redfield to be exact. Are you familiar with the man?"

"It may ring a bell."

"Should ring lots of 'em. Redfield was a former colleague, was he not?"

"He was."

"Curious, isn't it?" He reached into a briefcase and tossed a file folder on the empty seat next to Wesker.

Security camera snapshots of Christopher spilled onto the carpet. Black and white date and time stamped images. _Russia_.

"Intelligence on Redfield lists him more a nuisance than anything else. Odd that a man with such a clear cut right and wrong ethical code would go on a rampage and murder Oswell in cold blood."

"I am not privy to the inner workings of Redfield's mental state."

"No, I suppose not." Another photo plucked from the briefcase. "Are you privy to this woman?"

"Excella Gionne. Lade E. Sultry. Shrewd. A Tricell liason. We have met before, briefly, at a conference in Prague."

"At least you didn't deny it."

"Why should I?"

"Because it might be considered bad taste to play two sides against the middle my scheming partner."

"My interests serve only the Organization."

"You're sure about that?"

Another photo. _Kennedy_.

"And this man?"

"I have never officially made his acquaintance." _Not yet._

"His name is Leon Kennedy. Assigned to a special task force under the guidance and protection of the President of the United States. Caused quite a disturbance while on assignment in Spain. Last seen here." Another photo, this one taken at a distance. "In the company of one Frederick Downing. Does Downing chime those bells?"

"We have not had the pleasure of a formal introduction."

"Really?"

_Prague_. _Café Slavia_.

"Uncanny isn't it? This man could be your double. In fact, Albert, I would bet my life that this is you."

"I said formal. This was a casual exchange."

"I see. Two total strangers sharing a Viennese coffee."

The whites of Wesker's eyes flared orange. "Enough."

"No, Albert, it's the Organization who's had enough. We're tired of your games. Stories. Back door deals. Your inability to deliver on your promises."

##

Asleep or awake the conversations always ended the same. She judged him guilty for his transgressions. Wasn't interested in his explanations. Hated him right down to the molecules that made up the very fabric of his very existence. Like brother, like sister. Their blood was sludge.

Roses and sonnets and declarations of feelings he'd learned-if by habit than nothing else-to repress, were not going to tilt Cupid's bow in his favor.

##

'My brother is going to blow a hole right through your head.'

Courage and conviction and a smatter of tears streaked down dirt smudged cheeks.

'He is more than welcome to try. Operative word, 'try', it implies both the possibility of success and failure.'

'He won't fail. This base will be your tomb.'

'Funny,' he grinned, 'how two minds think alike. I was of a divergent opinion it would be Christopher left buried beneath the ice.'

She had backed herself into a corner.

'My only concern is what to do about you when the matter is settled, the debt paid, and his blood congealed cold.'

One hand pressed to the wall on either side of her shoulders. His full weight crushed against her. 'What to do with little broken-hearted Claire Redfield? A newfound puppy slaughtered and a brother erased right before her very eyes. A very traumatic day.'

'Leave me alone.'

'Try,' he said, his lips suspended above hers, 'and stop me.'

##

One kiss, and she'd fought him like a supernatural being imbued with the strength of twenty men…

##

Birkin jingled the keys to the holding cells. Unsteady steps heaved his body in wavy lines. 'Come along, Albert.'

'Perhaps we should call it a day.'

'You know what your problem is?'

_No._ But leave it to a man who couldn't hold his liquor to enlighten him.

Birkin collided with his shoulder. 'You don't know how to have any fun. You're all work and no play.'

'Five o'clock comes early.'

'Pwshh.' He jiggled a key in the lock. 'Comes even earlier with Annette up half the fuckin' night pukin' her guts out. Morning sickness my ass! There's a misnomer if I've ever heard one…'

##

Birkin undid his belt. 'Me first, or you?'

'I think this has gone far enough.'

'I never figured you for a queer.'

'And I never fingered you a rapist. It's wrong, William. Go home to your wife.'

'She don't know any better. She's ours to do with whatever we like. And right now…' He massaged the bulge in his pants. 'I'd like to pump her full of something more than needles.'

##

Camaraderie walked hand and hand with respect, and after he'd learned of William's dubious nocturnal activities he found the lab, their friendship, the very recycled air they shared tainted with disdain and disgust.

God forbid a higher power should bless a man like Birkin with a daughter, and when Wesker discovered the bump sharing Annette's waistline was indeed a girl Sunday dinner at the Birkin abode became as unpalatable as Annette's charred brickloaf and lumpy mashed potatoes.

##

'You parcel out virus like you're a fucking postman. A crumb here, a morsel there, and it's always on your schedule, at your convenience.'

Alex bent over and shoved his nose in Wesker's face. The space reserved for oxygen and lips of a female variety, upper and lower body.

'Well, I'm here to tell you, not anymore. We want it. All of it. The research notes. The formulas. The serums. Access to test subjects. Everything you obtained in Russia, and whatever else you put your grubby paws on when you went to Spencer's estate.'

Wesker thrust his elbow up. Alex's head snapped back. He lost his footing and stumbled into the breakfast tray table. Egg and orange juice splattered against the oval window.

'I think you will agree I am not particularly fond of ultimatums. Threaten me again and I will rip your kidneys out the back of your skull.'

Alex rolled onto his back. His shaky fingers fumbled in his pockets. He extracted a handkerchief and held it to his nose. 'You're a dead man! Dead! Do you hear me, Wesker? Dead! I'm looking at a ghost!'

Wesker smoothed a crease in his pants. _Promises. Promises_. If he had a dollar for every time someone threatened him with imminent mortal demise he wouldn't need men like Alex to fund his projects.

##

He dragged her up the muddy slope one agonizing breath at a time. Pull. Stop. Breathe. Pull. Stop. Breathe. Half a mind to leave her in the rain trampled brush, crawl his busted ass up four flights of stairs, wrench his broken femur from his leg, and jam the white and blood-slick jagged edge between Christopher's eyes.

He clutched the car door handle and pulled himself upright. A fresh pain blast dropped him to his knees.

He glanced up at the fourth floor balcony window. _There is no suffering in death_.

##

They stared at each other across the aisle. Alex drew a finger in a slicing motion across his neck. His dried egg yolk mustached lips mouthed the words 'dead man.'

Wesker grinned. Alex was more than welcome to try.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Convergence

_A Hungry Man frozen dinner and a cheap bottle of beer_. Well, there were the fermented banana peppers and pearl onions in the recycled pickle jar stashed behind the three days past expiration milk. Tin foil wrapped mystery meat. Brown-wilt lettuce. _No dressing! Dang!_

'_Pursue a hobby. Continue your education.'_

She tossed the TV dinner next to the microwave and flung open a cabinet door. _What hobbies? Hobbies are for people who have time, people who have extra energy, people who have talents in artsy, craftsy skills. What's my talent?_

Standing on her tiptoes, her fingers flitted over the medicine bottle caps stacked in the Redfield over the sink pharmacy. Prescription. Non-prescription. Creams. Gels. Rainy day, I can't get to the doctor today, half-tablet leftovers.

_Does killing creepy, crawly viral mutations count? Can murder be a talent? Housecleaning? Flapping my lips? _

She popped a lid and tapped Vicodin into the palm of her hand. _Back burner living. Nodding my head at the right time. I don't let the weight of my clipboard put a slouch in my spine. _She knocked back the horse pill with a gulp of lukewarm tap water and slammed the glass on the counter_. Take a good look. This is you. This is your life. You are a kitchen without a scheme. And isn't reality grand_. Mismatched cups. Raggedy dishtowels. Plastic plates and a dollar store dish drainer. _Being good means living poor... and dying young_. She tapped another Vicodin for extra foggy, _fuck you, I don't need you, _mental bliss.

_Stupid TerraSave! Stupid Chris!_ _Stupid Ji_-

Claire shuffled into the front room. None of the furnishings were new, the hodgepodge collection as worn and uncoordinated as her kitchen. A chocolate brown sofa with a black blanket tossed over the end to hide the tear in the armrest. A few pictures in cheap frames. _Stupid, cheap frames!_

Claire picked up a throw pillow, hugged it to her chest, and flopped onto the couch.

_What am I going to do now? Not a huge job market for biohazard facility inspectors. Ditto for zombie crowd control management._

She threw her head back and closed her eyes. The tears she refused to shed earlier dotted her eyelashes. _Why, God? Just tell me, why? Life shouldn't be this hard. What did the Redfield's ever do that made us persona non grata on Easy Street?_

'Where are you off to this time?'

'You can't ask me that question.'

'Oh, I can ask. You just can't tell me.'

'Exactly.'

'How long will you be gone?'

'As long as the mission takes. Which reminds me, the tires on the car need to be rotated. Front to back. Get the alignment this time.'

'I can rotate the tires.'

'Nope. It needs an alignment. Promise me you'll take it to a shop.'

Chris's medals deserved better than a box on a bowed, pressboard entertainment center shelf. _A nice glass display case. _The kind that stored sports memorabilia, his awards arranged and properly mounted. Jill had mentioned the idea a few months ago as a suggestion for a future Christmas present.

_Jill_. Claire pressed her forearm to her eyes. _Here I am dreaming up the perfect Chris gift to house a bunch of cheap, tarnished medals when, God forgive me, I should be thinking about you._

Did anybody really care if Chris Redfield nailed seventy headshots in sixty seconds three years in a row, and had the hardware to prove it? No! Nobody cared.

_Jill_. Caught up in her job loss woe-is-me blues, Claire had managed to dodge the dreaded four-letter J word most of the day.

Asphalt-gray gloam crept dusk across the room, sweeping shadows into corners.

###

'Squirt, Jill. Jill, Squirt.'

'Chris Redfield, that's hardly a proper introduction.'

'Who needs proper? You get the gist. You see her everyday.' He motioned to the kitchen. 'What'll you have?'

'What are you offering?'

'Beer. Water. Milk. Might be some OJ. Any OJ, Squirt?'

Claire kept her gaze on the page. 'No.'

'Water's fine, Chris. Ice if you have it.'

'Back in a jiff. Keep her company, Squirt.'

_Uh-huh_.

'It's nice to finally have a chance to sit down and get to know you, Claire.'

'It's not a big deal. My brother's right. You see me after school.'

'True. True. But that's work. Work social and dinner social aren't really the same.'

Claire flipped the page. _Oh, brother! Why does every woman Chris dates act like we're going to be BFF forever?_

This one was cuter than the usual blonde-haired, tube-top under a short jacket bimbo's Chris normally trolled home. She was smarter too, and that was going to be a problem. Claire gave it a week. Maybe two.

'What're you reading?'

'A book.'

'What's it about?'

'Stuff.'

Jill eased herself onto the couch next to Claire and dipped her head to see the cover. 'The Colosseum. Sound's interesting. Any good?'

'I suppose.' _Duh! Captain Obvious. I wouldn't be reading it if it sucked._

'I see pictures. Mind if I take a peek?'

_Crud! Did this woman moonlight as a kindergarten teacher on her days off? _Her voice was patient and pressing, and oddly annoying._ Over the shoulder alert. How long does it take to get a glass of water? Save me, Bro! It's freakin' ice and a tap._

'A history book.'

'Yep.'

'Are you interested in history?'

'I like it.'

'Enough to read about it. Do we have a budding archeologist in our midst?'

'If archeologists made more than squat.'

'I see Chris has schooled you in the fine art of slang.'

'It's a fact. They did career assessment tests at school. Archeology is what they call a 'niche' field. The pay is whack cause it don't pay jack. My brother wants me to study medicine.'

'What do you want?'

Now, this was interesting. Very interesting. _Hmmm_..._Ok maybe three weeks, and only because she seems...What's the word?...Genuine._

'I'd like to travel the world.'

Jill pointed to a picture. 'And see all the beauty in it.'

'It's really not all that beautiful, now.'

'I disagree. I've been to Rome, and I think the Colosseum is more grand and glorious today than it might have seemed when it was first built. The antiquity and the flaws, the missing ramparts and stone, give the structure personality and life. It's not the achievement of perfection that defines a man.'

_Blah. Blah. Blah._ Claire snapped the book shut. 'Doesn't matter anyway. By the time I graduate college there won't be anything left worth discovering.'

'Oh, I don't know. I never say, never. I recently read an article about the last great archeological frontier. Care to know where?'

Claire shrugged. _I don't know, are you going to spit it out, or do we have to play twenty questions so you can feel good about yourself later over your getting to know me efforts? _

'It's deep and blue and salty.'

_Shoot me. Just shoot me_.

'Take a guess.'

_Right between the eyes_. 'The ocean.'

'Correct. There are sunken ships, forgotten cities, and a vast, complex ecosystem, just waiting to be explored.

_Sucks to be you, Genius_! 'Gee, that sounds great. There is one problem though.'

'Chris? I'm sure if-'

'I can't swim. Pretty hard to search for buried ocean treasure when I'll drown.'

'You don't know how to swim? Chris didn't teach you?'

'No.'

'Well, shame on Chris. But, you're in luck.'

Luck would be her brother getting the lead out instead of taking his sweet time.

'I can swim. In fact, I'm a very good swimmer. I was a high dive and backstroke record holder in high school. Would you like me to teach you?'

Chris emerged from the kitchen with two glasses pinched at the rim between the fingers of one hand and a plate of crackers and cheese in the other hand. 'Ladies, don't get up. The movie snack plate is served.'

###

Claire bolted upright. _'I can swim. I'm a very good swimmer.'_

_Maybe, but how far did you fall? _Barry didn't say. Chris' boss didn't either. How far was too far?

She dug in the front pocket of her jeans for her phone. '_I can swim. I'm a very good swimmer.' _

_Good enough to battle storm tides? How hard did you hit? _She pressed the phone to her ear. _Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick-_"Barry, it's Claire."

"Good to hear your voice. How's it going, Kiddo? I was just getting ready to call you. Chris is stable. Doing well. He's on his way-"

"That's good to know, but he's not the reason I'm calling. I need a favor."

"That depends. What kind of favor?"

"Jill was a good swimmer, a high school record holder. She taught me how to swim and told me that her parents wanted her to train with an Olympic coach."

"Claire-"

"I need to know how far she fell."

"Claire, I can hear what you're thinking in your voice. Let it go. The dive team searched the water. They went up and down the coast."

"I can't."

"Grieving will be easier if you do, trust me. Clinging to the thought of her being alive is just going to make the process harder for you."

"Then slap a straight jacket on me and call me crazy for being stubborn. How far, Barry?"

"From one of the fourth floor balcony windows. Far enough to kill."

"Fifty feet? A hundred feet? How far?"

"I don't know the exact measurements, Kiddo. I don't have direct access to the file. My information has been mouth to ear."

"I need to see the file."

"Claire...I can't gain access to the file..."

"She's the one who got you your job, Barry."

"Claire-"

"Nobody wanted you after you were implicated in the mansion incident."

"That isn't fair. I was blackmailed."

"Fair or not, she's the one who got you assigned overseas. You owe her, your dignity if nothing else."

There was a long pause.

"Barry?"

"Ok, you made your point. I'll tell you what. I can't obtain the file, but I can do something even better."

"I'm listening."

"I spoke to Arthur Valentine today. There's a memorial service in the works for Jill scheduled to take place some time next week. Maybe, the week after. Her folks are still ironing out the details. I was planning to wrap up some things and head out over the next couple of days. I could stop for a layover in Portsmouth...Ride on up to Spencer's estate, and take a look at the scene myself. Snap a few photos. Would that work?"

"I owe you one."

"We'll settle up with a beer when I'm in town."

"We'll settle up with champagne when I find her."

"Claire-"

"Ya know what, Barry, Arthur Valentine can have his headstone and his memories. I'll take the living, breathing woman. We'll see who ends up with more."

###

Their altercation achieved the desired effect. He'd put her in her place. She was brooding and sullen, committed to silence. She hadn't mumbled a single, solitary, disagreeable word.

His house was in order. Dishes done. Counters scrubbed. Hoover lines in the carpet. His damaged bumper the best three months of maid service he'd ever spent.

The fireplace mantle clock ticked away their remaining time together as she rapid turned the pages of a teen magazine. He caught a glossy cover glimpse. An eyebrow went up. _Ten luscious lip shades for spring. Twenty too die for prom hairstyles. The right dress-on a budget!_

Youth! They worried over nonsense and obsessed matters that meant little in life.

Twenty years from now Claire Redfield wouldn't remember what she wore to prom, much less which copied hair upsweep-impossible to replicate-she had chosen. It was a waste of focus and mental energy.

Wesker leaned forward. Friday afternoon. The financial analysis and purchase order forms were complete. Up for a verbal spar, and resistance from an easy to taunt foe, he broke their non-communication truce.

'You should avoid hot pink. Redheads do not wear the shade well.'

She rolled her eyes and the tight line of her lips slanted down. 'So, now you're a fashion designer? Color coordinator? How would you know?'

'I am neither, but I do have eyes. They are functional, Miss Redfield. It is common knowledge redheads fair better in earth and jewel tones. Olive. Carmel. Emerald green. Perhaps, a plum wine or royal purple hue, the darker the shade the better. The more relevant question is how, seeing that you are, in fact, a redhead, is it that you do not know?'

She circled a dress with a yellow highlighter. 'I like it.'

'Do you also like clowns? Wear that washed out creation and you will certainly look like one. Alas, far be it from me to prevent a Redfield from rendering themselves a fool and acting a jackass. You have had an excellent teacher. Kudos to Christopher.'

'Why do you hate him so much? What did he ever do to you? He leaves early. He works late. He does every thing you ask him to do.'

'You speak in the singular.'

'So, you don't hate my brother, you just hate everyone in general?'

He tapped his nose with the tip of his finger.

Claire shook her head. 'Pathetic,' she mumbled.

'A little louder, please.'

'You heard me. You're pathetic. You have no concept of how to treat people, so you walk across them like they're dirt. You think fear is respect. I hope you die old and alone. It's what you deserve.'

'I would rather have a one-sided conversation with myself and spend time in solitary confinement than build relationships out of false pretenses.'

'Congratulations, you're well on your way. Keep going.' She dug in the pocket of her backpack and pulled out a CD player and headphones.

Her anger and disgust were one thing, those Wesker expected and tolerated. Her dismissal another matter entirely.

'I would assume you render the same effort in your search for a higher education learning institution as you do your frivolous magazine perusal?'

She popped the ear buds in her ears, twisted around on the sofa, and threw her legs over the armrest.

'Miss Redfield?' He was up in an instant. The magazine snatched into his hands. 'You were asked a question.'

'Hey! Give that back!'

'I want an answer.'

'Stuff it! There's your answer. I've got a middle finger for another one if you'd like that better.'

'Tell me where. You may keep the extra, vulgar gesture to yourself.'

'Just give it back.'

'Wrong.'

'Finnnne! Yes. I applied to colleges. Happy? Can I have it?"

He flipped the magazine right side up to face him, creased open the spine, and ripped the first page from its binding. 'Atrocious.'

'Stop that! You're ruining it!'

'Horrendous.'

'Damn it!'

She jumped up off the sofa. 'You owe me three-fifty. That's what it cost.'

###

Wesker raised his glass. Nothing fancy. Nothing fruity. When in Rome wear a toga. When in a podunk, roadside bar drink a beer. Was the mug half full? Half empty?

Destiny. Fate. Free will. Choice. Theoretical concepts. Philosophical hogwash.

_Achilles_. The mythical, Grecian half man-half God was prophesized to die before his conception, yet it was Achilles himself who chose to follow his predestined path to the place of his death.

To believe in fate forced the acknowledgement of an unknown plan, and regardless of personal choice, or series of choices, this plan would work itself to fulfillment.

The news anchors on the television set anchored above the bar repeated a late-breaking blurb regarding a ten-car pile-up, the top story of the day. The cause of the mass collisions, an overturned oil tanker and subsequent explosion.

The morning rush hour death tally stood at fifteen, with two unaccounted for. The most prominent new addition to the twisted metal crash club was a well-liked, local factory owner by the name of Redmond Jensen.

A proponent of destiny might argue Mr. Jensen came face to face with his fate, determined in advance through unknown and unchangeable cosmic forces. His life forfeited at the correct moment, in the corresponding place, in time. His entire being and existence structured and constructed around an event beyond the limit of his human control.

Those who touted a free will doctrine would counter that Redmond was a victim of choice, fully conscious of his actions and accepting of the Universe's equal and opposite reactions.

The facts were: Redmond rolled out of bed, left early for work, and slammed into the undercarriage of the tanker at approximately seven forty-eight am.

A dead battery, a sinus headache, a flat tire, the stop at a convenience store for a cup of coffee, and everything changes.

Redmond bites it in a heart attack ten years down the road. Maybe, just maybe, Redmond really goes the distance. He drifts asleep in his nursing home bed, ninety years young; content in the life he led.

Wesker withdrew a pen, reached over the edge of the counter, and plucked a napkin off a plump stack.

He spread the napkin open and drew a large circle in the center. He labeled the center with a capital W. On the outer edge of the circle he drew a smaller, elliptical circle that intersected the first. In the center of the second circle he jotted the letters C and R. Below the C and R ellipse he drew another ellipse. This circle crossed C and R, and W.

Wesker hesitated, index finger pressed hard against the metal jacket overlay near the pen's tip. He smeared the initials C and R into the third circle.

One circle each for Alex, TriCel, and the Organization on the opposite side. Another represented Downing. Ada's looped through Downing's and the circle with an L and a K scrawled in the center. A J and V ellipse cut deep into his own and crossed paths with both circles marked C and R.

One giant grape stalk, mish-mash cluster. A crudely drawn napkin representation of the people in current, closest proximity to Wesker's world. Repetition like a comet, they orbited in and out of Wesker's life, moving toward, and drifting away from his sphere of influence. The endless revolution cycled and recycled over and over again. The convergence of destiny and the divergence of free will.

He stared at the C and R circles. One represented the North Pole to his South Pole, and the inevitable showdown on the Equator when their two hemispheres collided. The other was the embodiment of the road not taken. The flesh and blood icon of humanity he'd shed in his quest for viral perfection.

There was a linear, non-linear timeline logic problem imbedded in the close-ended, co-joined circles. A head-scratcher tailored for Trekkies and Philosophers. Wesker was neither. He operated on fact, and the facts were: He was born uncommon and raised to excel. There had never been a noteworthy, significant other. Married to a lab coat and a microscope, he'd accepted work over a family lifestyle. A mortgage. The expected two and a half children.

He regretted nothing, least of all his own personal and professional monetary success, but deep beneath the callous, perfectionist demeanor, Wesker felt cheated, denied. A condescending voice inside his head mocked his achievements with hearty, random thoughts of loneliness and loss.

The jukebox behind Wesker kicked on, and country singer twang jarred him back to reality.

First Alex. Now this. Pure torture. Ada's rationale for their less than five star rendezvous point had better be damn good. He was as tired of her as Alex was of him. Damn good, with a capital D and a G. Kennedy was waiting.

###

A plan in motion did wonders for her appetite. The Vicodin didn't hurt either. She was buzzing on calm, kiting on lazy river euphoria, after a wet and wild water park day.

Chris would always be Chris. He'd be rollin' like a rich Texan in no time.

Jill wasn't dead. Period.

Barry had been right. The news vans parked at the front gate had fizzled down to one. The cameraman dozed on a lawn chair under a tree.

She leaned against the open door. "Whad'ya say you and I take a trip to the grocery store?"

"I'm not allowed to leave my post, Miss Redfield."

"Fifteen minutes. We're there and back and nobody is wiser."

He sighed, crossed his hands behind his back, and planted his feet.

"I don't have to stay here. They can't keep me under house arrest. I'm really more a voluntary prisoner. You're contributing to the violation of my civil liberties."

"You may call my office between the hours of nine and five, Monday through Friday, to complain."

"You aren't hard to evade. I could have hopped the fence at any time."

"Why didn't you?"

"My brother. He needs all the help he can get right now. I don't need to stir up trouble to make matters worse for him."

"So, don't. Go inside."

"Look, I'm hungry. I've had a rotten day. I want to sit on my sofa and hate my life over a bowl of ice cream and a bag of potato chips. Cut me a break. I've been a good detainee. I haven't tried anything...yet." Her smile dimpled her cheeks.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You're the big, bad, Agent. You figure it out. I've got nothing to lose by going back in the house and walking straight out the back door. I'm already racing down a shit chute. Won't mean a thing to me."

"I don't know, Miss Red-"

"When was the last time you had a home cooked meal, Agent James?"

"It's been awhile."

"I can cook. Ribeye. Texas Toast. A fresh garden salad. Baked potato. Extra butter. Sour cream."

"You're making my mouth water."

"I know, right? So, what's it gonna' be? A grilled steak, or the shame of reporting me AWOL while you were on duty?"

"Fifteen minutes?"

"You can set your watch on it."

"Sold. One ribeye steak and all the fixins."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

3...2...1...1...2...3

Claire's gaze swept the parking lot, the Mustang keys clenched in her hand. She licked her lips in anticipation.

The car was parked in the handicap space, right where she said it would be. It was sleek and black and freshly waxed.

A woman loaded plastic bags into a minivan, and a man chatted on a cell phone as he wheeled a basket to a shopping cart return.

Agent James, guiding Claire's basket from the front, stepped onto the asphalt.

The next moment happened in a lightening strike flash, the squeal of tires, and a white delivery truck blur. Agent James' legs were upended. Shot horizontal. His body cartwheeled up and into the windshield. The glass cracked and buckled from the force of the impact. His body ricocheted off the fender like a deflated basketball.

_James!_ Claire froze.

Minivan woman yanked her toddler into her arms and rushed toward James, yelling at the man stood dumbstruck at the cart return to call for help.

The delivery truck sped around the side of the store and disappeared in a cloud of muffler exhaust.

Claire's jaw dropped. _Please be okay. I'm sorry, please be okay._

Minivan woman set her daughter on the ground and flopped to her knees. "Oh, my God! Don't move. Can you hear me? Don't move." She lowered her head next to James' face and her wide-eyed gaze drifted to Claire. "Hey! You! Do you know him? Is he with you? Help me."

Claire stumbled backward over a head of lettuce. "I'm sorry."

"Help me. I don't think he's breathing. Do you know CPR?"

Sirens wailed in the distance. _Now, or never_. Emergency services and the police would keep her tied up in reports and witness statements for the rest of the evening. She didn't have time to be accountable.

"He's not breathing!"

Claire looked at the Mustang. James. Minivan woman. Cart Dude._ Sirens. He'll die. Shit! Decide! Not like this. No! Not like this._

She shoved minivan woman aside and rolled James onto his back.

_"_Pay attention. Do exactly what I say, exactly what I do_._ Tilt the head back, like this. Apply slight pressure with your palm on his forehead to keep it back. Pinch the nostrils closed with your forefinger and thumb. Regular inhale and exhale. You're not blowing up a balloon. Watch!" Claire covered James' lips and blew once, watched his chest gradually rise and fall, and then blew again.

She grabbed minivan woman's hands and placed them slightly above the notch on his sternum where the bottom ribs met the middle of James' chest.

"Palm over palm. Get on your knees. Keep your arms straight. One hundred beats per minute. Thirty compressions and then two, quick breaths. Hum the song Another One Bites The Dust. Go!"

"I can't...I'm going to hurt him. Why am I humming?"

"Do it! He's already injured. Arms straight! Don't bend your elbows. That's it. Faster."

Claire glanced over her shoulder. "Because the song is exactly one hundred beats per minute."

Sirens, and now flashing red lights cruised into the parking lot entrance.

_Please be ok. They're coming_. _I'm sorry_. She turned and broke for the Mustang, slid over the hood to the driver side, and yanked the door open.

Claire burned black tire smoke out of the parking lot, careened around a corner, and kicked the engine into third gear.

She ran a red light two blocks down, and merged onto the freeway entrance ramp with a shift into fourth.

The Mustang cut across two traffic lanes and veered into the fast lane. Claire tapped the clutch with her left foot and threw the shifter into fifth. Her right foot hit the gas, the pedal mashed against the floorboard as she accelerated. _Hold on, Mr. Awesome. You may be stupid, but you're my stupid. _

###

**Rewind It Back**

###

"Claire, Claire Redfield! It's been ages. You look fantastic!"

She was sucked into a bear hug. Her arms pinched to her waist.

Agent James looked up from the magazine rack.

"Don't struggle. Don't cause a scene. We're just two old friends who bumped into each other in the frozen food section," Ada whispered into her ear.

Claire caught a glimpse of Ada's reflection in the glass. She sucked in her breath. "Jesus...Your face. What the hell happened to your face?"

"Pick out a quart of store brand Rocky Road. Top shelf. The last container on the right hand side. Follow my lead. Turn down the feminine hygiene aisle. Your watchdog won't follow."

"Your teeth...They're-"

"Occupational injury. No Workmans Comp. Ready?"

"Ada-"

"Gosh, I haven't seen you since Chris's last party. What have you been up too?" She tousled Claire's hair. "Still red I see."

"Better red than black," Claire chimed. She reached into the freezer and felt for the suggested tub of Rocky Road. Her fingers brushed something cold and metal set atop a carton. _Keys_. She scooped them into her palm, deposited the ice cream into her cart, and slipped the keys into her pocket.

They strolled around the corner and headed toward paper products, Agent James hot on their heels.

"So, tell me, are you still dating what's-his-name? The blonde with the melt your heart baby blues."

"Off and on."

"More off than on?"

"Lately, more on."

"Better be careful. Man like that has a gal in every port."

"I have it on good authority he's currently anchored in his home port. He never really cared for Asian offshore."

They turned down feminine products. Agent James followed them half way down the aisle and came to an abrupt stop near the pen section.

"Second Playtex box on the left hand side."

"Are you going to tell me what is going on? What's with the grocery store scavenger hunt? What am I supposed to do with keys and a box of Playtex?"

"Leon's transport mission ran into trouble."

_Leon_! "What kind of trouble?"

"The Redfield kind. He's pinned down, needs your help, and asked me to point you in the right direction. There is a Mustang parked in the handicap stall in front of the store. Address to his current location is taped to the bottom of the Playtex box."

"Leon's got access to all kinds of backup. He doesn't need me."

"He thinks there's a mole in his department, a well-connected double agent masquerading as a government official. Someone aware of his mission objectives, someone who knew exactly where and when to strike."

"But he trusts you?"

"I'm as neutral as nude pantyhose. I go with everything. He has my number. He dialed it."

"And not mine."

"He's afraid to make direct contact. A call can be traced. No offense, but your three hundred anytime minutes cell phone isn't exactly hack proof."

_Fan-fucking-tastic! Like I don't have enough on my plate. Paging Claire Redfield. Mr. Super Duper Awesome Agent needs your urgent assistance. Stupid Leon. And he had the nerve to have me, Me, escorted home. Who's fragile now? Hmmm. _

Claire set the Playtex box in the basket. "Just so we're clear, will you be riding shotgun?"

"Not unless I want to eat buckshot for dinner. I work for the same men that have loverboy cornered."

Claire jutted her head in James' direction. "And him?"

"Leave your shackle to me. Dally five more minutes. Pay for the groceries at the checkout stand near the North doors. Wait for my diversion. The rest is up to you."

"What kind of diversion? I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Then you'd better get moving. Leon and Downing are going to die."

###

Redfield and Agent Idiot grabbed a shopping cart and disappeared through the sliding doors.

Ada toured the store perimeter. There was nothing doing out front. Light foot traffic near the entry, exit doors. Single stragglers on last minute bread and toilet paper runs. The sides and back of the building separated from the surrounding businesses with a concrete block-wall fence. _Easily scaleable_.

A delivery roll-up door on the North side of the building was open, and a white truck parked on the ramp that led to the roll up. Engine running. A store employee and a jeans-dressed driver shooting the shit near a pallet stack just inside the door.

Ada slow-drove around to the store front and parked her Mustang in the handicap stall. She reached into the glove box and pulled out a handicap sticker.

_Here we go_. She patted the steering wheel. _Don't worry baby. If Redfield puts so much as a scratch on you, I'm taking it out of her hide._

###

Ada adjusted the rear view mirror and gently inserted her finger into the fleshy cavity between her lips and her gums. Pulsing throbs shot foot-tapping pain into her lower jaw.

_Never again. The man is a maniac_.

She scooped out a blood soaked wad and ran her lacerated tongue over her jagged incisors as she mentally estimated the going rate for root canals and porcelain crowns. _Son-of-a-bitch!_

Pink tinged fingers tore open a bag of cotton balls. She grabbed a fluffy handful and pressed them softly into and over the holes in her gums where two molars used to be.

The puffed up 'shiners' were going to be a problem. Her eyes were slits, rimmed in a Halloween makeup blend of blue and black, green around the edges. Agent Idiot would have to be taken out up close, instead of neutralized at range.

Ada twisted the cap off a bottle of eyewash solution and leaned her head back. She braced a palm on the steering wheel and poured the entire contents of the bottle over both eyes. Her fidget-foot went into overdrive; pounding the floor mats in a heavy metal, drum solo rhythm.

Closed lips would temporarily hide her teeth. Sunglasses would mask her golf ball sized eyelids.

The front door opened. Ada slunk lower in the driver's seat. Claire Redfield emerged. She and Agent Idiot had a one-minute conversation. The door shut, and surprise, hallelujah surprise, Redfield reappeared a few minutes later with her purse and her jacket.

A stoke of incredible luck on wheels rambled down the Redfield driveway and turned out onto the street.

###

He jammed a finger width tentacle in her mouth. Her head snapped sideways and she spat tooth and blood.

"Are you familiar with the physical penalties that are metered out for justice in third world, foreign countries?"

He coiled the end around her tongue, and pulled.

"A thief, for example, might forfeit his hands so that he should never again be able to take what does not belong to him. A man with a fancy for flight might have his legs amputated at the knees so that he will never again be able to run away from his crimes. A liar might have his tongue cut from his mouth so that he should never again use his voice to deceive."

Wesker yanked her head back. "Tell me, Miss Wong, which punishment best suits you? Are you the thief? The runner? Or, are you the lying, two-bit whore?"

"'lease...S'op...'lease-"

"How low my favored have fallen."

Ada squeezed her eyes shut. "'lease...A'i 'orry-"

"Awwww...She is sorry. As though an apology makes her deception magically disappear. Sorry is an excuse. It is a one-word admission of guilt. Tell me, Ada, whatever could you have you done that requires my forgiveness? Whatever can you offer to rebuild our formerly mutual, trustworthy bond?"

###

_He knows. He knows. Think, damn it, he knows._

_Calm down. Keep cool. What could he possibly know? Sell it. Keep selling it. Make him buy it._

_He knows!_

Ada kicked the stall door open and hopped onto a toilet bowl rim.

The latch on the window didn't budge. It was sealed shut. Paint globs stuck to the rusted twist-turn locking mechanism and the casement edge.

Stomach pressed to the tile, Ada slipped her arms out of her jacket and wrapped it around her hand.

She took a deep breath and punched her hand through the glass. Once. Twice. Three times to clear the triangle-shaped shards that remained wedged in the aluminum frame.

Up and over she went, head first.

Her shoulder hit the ground, followed by her backside and her ass.

She scrambled to her feet, and ran...Straight into Wesker's fist.

###

"You smell like gasoline."

"Is that supposed to be funny? I'm not in the mood."

"Merely an observation." He spread his arms out over the top of the velvet-lined booth. "Make all of this...inconvenience... worth my while. I am not amused. Tell me what I want to hear."

Ada slid a manila envelope across the table. "No need to count it. It's all there. I covered my own expenses."

"How generous. Not the answer I seek. Try again."

"Gladly. There were party crashers. Krauser and I weren't the only players running around in the desert."

"In all things be prepared."

"Not for a squadron. What a mess. You could have warned me. I barely made it out of that hellhole alive."

"And Downing?"

"He ran off with Kennedy when Krauser went all shooting galley."

"Did you pursue him?"

"Of course I did. I would have had him too if your destructive protégé hadn't interfered. What part of friendly fire does he not understand? I'm reconnaissance and retrieval, not the fucking Red Baron."

"And where is Downing?"

"How the fuck should I know. I was too busy dodging bullets. Kennedy must have cut him loose."

Lies. Lies. And more lies on top of lies. Someone, Ada, liked her tall tale story hour just a little too much.

His eyes flared orange. "Shall we take a drive? Discuss our problem in a more private setting."

"Absolutely. I'll follow you."

Wesker rose and extended his hand. "Perhaps, we should leave together."

"And my car?"

"One of my men will retrieve it."

"Fine. I need to use the ladies room first. I'll meet you outside."

###

"Hi, I'm Candy, with a K."

Candy with a K sidled up next to Wesker and sat down at the bar.

It was too early in the evening to buy what Candy with a K sold beneath her zip-up mini skirt, strapless top, and false-lash, glitter eye shadow eyes.

The lights weren't dim. He wasn't drunk, and never in his life had he been a pick up a one-night stand in a bar desperate. Candy with a K, which should have been Gold Digger with a GD, or Barfly with a B in bright red rhinestones, was sniffing 'round the wrong tree.

"I've never seen you here before. Are you new in town?"

"Passing through. Waiting for a friend."

"Mind if I wait with you?"

Her ass parked on the barstool made her question moot. Candy with a K seemed quite comfortable.

"What will it take?"

She scooted closer. _Too close_. "Say what?"

Wesker raised his empty glass to catch the bartender's attention and received a nod in acknowledgment. "What will it take for you to move to the end of the bar?"

Candy with a K laughed as though his refusal were a joke. She nudged his arm with her elbow. "You're funny."

Ada rolled through the double doors like a summer monsoon thunderstorm, sudden and fierce.

She made a beeline for Wesker, threw her arm around his neck, and planted a kiss on his cheek; all the while her gaze concentrated on Candy with a K's face. "Miss me?"

"You are late."

"Hey! I saw him first."

Ada squeezed between Wesker and his admirer. "Beat it, honey. Trust me, he's not interested. Your roots aren't dark enough."

Wesker's spine stiffened. _Have I been so obvious? I hadn't realized. _Perhaps there had been one too many trips to the two-story, desperately in need of a fixer-up, Redfield residence for Ada.

Although, he gave Christopher props on the state of the art security system. High quality. Military grade. There were lasers and sirens, and enough ear-piercing bells and whistles to wake an Australian. _How the neighbors must enjoy false alarms._ It was the primary reason his cameras were installed in every yard around the block, except Christopher's. So much as break wind within a mile radius of the Redfield abode and Christopher would definitely know about it.

"Is this your friend? She's kinda' a bitch."

Ada dipped in her pocket and produced President Grant. "Listen lush, there's a liquor store and an adult novelty shop two blocks south. Go buy yourself a fifth and some portable, vibrating fun. My treat."

Candy with a K became Nasty with an N. "Fuck off, bitch!"

Ada's face Alabama Slammed in a Candy with a K wrist flick. Ice chips and a slim, red sippy straw clung to her dripping, formerly windblown, strands.

Ada clenched her fist. "You're going to lick counter, dye job."

While every man loved a good catfight to lighten a mood, the last thing Wesker wanted, or needed, was a scene.

He grabbed Ada by the collar, jerked her away from the bar, and shuffled toward one of the booths in the back. "Now is not the time."

Candy with a K blew her a farewell kiss. "Bye, Bye, Bi-otch."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Blastoff

The weatherworn numbers on the abandoned building at the end of the dirt road matched the numbers on the index card. This was definitely the right place.

Claire rolled to a stop, threw the Mustang into park, and switched off the ignition. "Welcome to Settler's Bluff..." _Population, zero. Fright factor, ten_. "Holy hillbilly."

Her gaze panned her surroundings, finger poised above the door lock button. She'd seen wooden sidewalks on summer, lazy day ocean piers. Daydreamed about a whitewashed, wrap-around porch. Potted plants suspended above a two-seat swinging bench, sipping sun-brewed iced tea and drifting into a nap while listening to a soothing wind chime tinkle.

Those visions were alive. Vibrant. There were people on the piers. Bursts of magnificent color in the shrubbery near her dream porch, shocks of orange and yellow in the flowers and bountiful spring greens in the fat-leafed trees.

Nothing like the sun-bleached, warped and slanted pilings attached to the rotted, wooden and crumbled brick buildings that lined the narrow strip of road.

No lights. No lampposts. The warehouse yard and the adjacent, derelict lots shrouded in silence. The sharp bend of tree limbs casting jagged, shifting shadows across the decayed storefronts and deep into the swaying Red Maple and Box Elder forest tangle. The moonlight swallowed in a towering trunk and leaf canopy.

_Un-fucking believable!_ This place was low by low's standards. For a 'safe house' it didn't appear very 'safe'. Pretty much the last place on earth she'd run and hide if her ass were in a sling. _But, that's me. I'm not Leon_.

Claire eased the door open, and inhaled pine. A rushing wind blew unsettling creaks, and the clatter of unhinged, lopsided shutters banged against the front of the buildings, down the empty street. _No chainsaw, thank God!_

The stiff breeze rustled the stray hairs in her ponytail. Raindrops tickled her scalp. She forced her way through waist high weeds crowded against a sagging post and rail fence.

Her Redfield bullshit meter started to rise. Did Ada send her on some snipe hunt? The black-haired bitch sitting all warm and cozy in her bed, cracking open a tall cool one, laughing her ass off, while Claire was out-nipples rock hard-stumbling around a deserted turn of the century town in the cold and in the dark. _Well, hardy-fuckin'-har!_ _Bravo, bitch! Ya got me!_

Claire shook her head and crumpled the index card. _Three damn hours! I just booked it three, lonnnng fuckin' hours, broke every land speed record in a Mustang known to man, to be punked by some grudge-holding Asian broad. Fuuuck meeee! I'm nobody's joke. I'm outta here._ _If I hurry I can floor it back home, and be ready when the po-po come knockin'_. This Lucy had some 'splaining to do.

The first stop when she rolled back into a town with more than one dead horse was a wrecking yard. She'd donate the car in Ada Wong's name, keep one of the lug nuts, and mail it to the bitch. C.O.D.

The second stop would be a visit to James. She owed him more than an apology. It was going to take a lot of hospital visiting hours and more flowers than she could afford to ease her guilt.

Claire walked back to the Mustang. _What kinds of flowers are appropriate in this situation? Roses? Too expensive. Carnations? Oh, no, not carnations. Aren't those dead people flowers?_

She stopped. Rested her hand on the warm hood. "What if it's not a joke?" _The bitch rammed that truck right up James' ass, awfully reckless, and pointless, for a shenanigan_.

"Why?"

_You really want to go in there by yourself?_

"No."

_Walk away._

"What if...what if he's here? He asked for help. I can't abandon him."

_No, he didn't ask for help. Ada said he needed your help. Big difference._

"But-"

_It's wrong. Feel it. Smell it. Get in the car and go._

"I came all this way. Seems ridiculous to just...just leave. Ada isn't really known as a prankster. She didn't maim, _and possibly kill_, a government agent to send me on a wild goose chase."

_No, she's an accomplished liar_.

"I can leave the car here, keep to the fence. Scout around the buildings. No harm in looking. Being sure. Five minutes. What's five minutes? I have to know. I can spare five minutes."

An hour later, sitting across a butcher-block table, staring into the fire-forge ember eyes of Albert Wesker-trading insults and morality with a psychopath inoculated against every strain of sympathy known to mankind-Claire Redfield would remember those words, and wish she had taken the advice of her subconscious and simply, unequivocally, driven away.

But, now was now, not an hour from now. Fear and adrenaline, and good old-fashioned Redfield curiosity inched her over the precipice of decision. One foot dangling in mid-air, the rest of her body ready to take a leap of faith plunge into the unknown.

She reached for the glove box, and recoiled. It wasn't there. _This isn't my car_. The sudden awareness was a revelation. The Beretta was sitting in the nightstand next to her bed. _Right where I left it._

_This isn't my car. _Her heartbeat picked up rhythm_. No one knows I'm here. _Faster_. I have no weapon._ Pounding in her ears."I'm all alone."

She recalled the last time she'd seen another human being. _Seventy, almost eighty, miles ago._

She'd stopped for gas and an energy drink, and asked the clerk for directions from the point where she had been directed to exit the freeway.

'By the looks of this thing, appears to me, you're headed for Settler's Bluff.'

'Settler's Bluff?'

'It's an old mining town. Some dang fool struck it rich back in the Eighteen hundreds. Brought a flock of diggers and panners that swarmed in like locusts and blasted the hills with dynamite and pressure hoses. Right prosperous town, until the vein dried up.'

'There were a few that waded through the dry spell, pokin' around, prayin' for their chance to turn a buck. The interstate finished 'em off forty years ago. The highway came, seventy miles south, and Settler's Bluff turned into a ghost town.'

'Nowadays it gets it's fair share of tourists, ya know, sightseers hyped up on adventure, people whose grandparents told 'em about the Bluff's heyday and they wanna' go and have a look-see, a few teenagers on a Saturday night-liquored up on beer and mischief-but never a gal, all by herself, at night. You spook easy?'

'Never in my life.'

'Hmph. Lotta' crazy grumblings goin' on about that place.'

Claire leaned on the counter. 'What kind of grumblings?'

'Strange noises. Visions. People seein' things. Hearin' things. Animal-like sounds. Strange lights. Some say ghosts, some say it's somethin' else.'

'I don't believe in ghosts, and anything non-supernatural I'm more than capable of handling. Trust me.'

Claire caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She dove down behind the Mustang, and slowly raised her head over the hood. The hairs on her neck prickled.

A thin stream of flashlight beam bobbed up and down. Over the rustle of leaves there were voices, low and hushed. Then, she smelled smoke. Cigarette smoke. Drifting downwind.

_Leon doesn't smoke. Does Downing? He didn't smell like a dirty ashtray. _

Something was fishy as day old potato salad left out on a hundred degree day. Common sense finally caught up to Redfield instinct and worry wasn't far behind. _Leon_. _Am I too late?_

Claire scuttled forward on her hands and knees. Her decision made. She plunged like a lead ball, confident in her quick thinking ability and a parachute sewn out of imaginary Redfield luck to save her from the neck-breaking stop at the bottom.

###

Wesker circled the bulletproof glass and steel container.

The glass itself was a bullet-resistant, glass-clad polycarbonate. Durable and lightweight, purchased in curved, cut to measure spec sheets. Designed to repel high-powered firearm discharge with no-spall tolerance performance.

The stainless steel box and electrical panel and water pump fittings manufactured in Germany and assembled at an Organization R and D lab in Texas.

It never ceased to amaze how it were possible in the States to procure bulk defensive and offensive armament components for use in no questions asked applications, and yet one had to sign a form at a pharmacy to buy limited quantities of over the counter cough syrup.

If Christopher were of a think outside the small box for his brain mindset, he'd use a different approach in his quest to infiltrate every bio weapon lab and testing facility on the seven continents. Who knew, maybe he enjoyed piloting pontoon boats into backwater, malaria infested locales, just for the thrill of it?

A smarter approach, a better alternative, would have been an investigation into the sale and tracking of materials used in the very facilities he aimed to blow to Kingdom Come and back again.

Purchase requisitions for lab equipment. Oversize, steel, containers. Plexiglas. Security monitoring applications and software. That's where the real trail lay, waiting for someone with more brains than muscle to follow it back to every clandestine mover and shaker involved in bio weapon production and testing.

He stopped in front of Kennedy and titled his chin up.

_I was there_. There, the night Claire slammed Kennedy's door and wiped her tears away on the back of her hand as she trudged up her driveway. She never turned around. Never saw Kennedy slam his fist into the steering wheel. Never saw him linger outside a Manhattan high rise three days later, and float away in a sea of quick walking people. Ada on one arm, a brand new plaster cast on the other.

_I was there_. There, the night of the charity auction and masquerade ball.

He'd gone to sample the Carnevale atmosphere and bid on a Nineteen forty-seven Chevrolet Fleetmaster Country Club Coupe.

The pictures in the auction catalogue hardly did the automobile justice. The generously rounded 'Fat Body' fenders and gleaming black paint job were pristine. The wooden side panels and trunk overlay dent and scratch free. The interior was immaculate. No rips or stains. Two hundred and twenty-nine original miles on a clean, well-kept, stock engine. Classic as Bette Davis, and an acquisition privilege.

He had glanced up, and there she was. Descending down a grand staircase flanked by twin Cupids carved from Italian marble. Sparkling, in a body-hugging champagne sheath; light on cleavage, but generous with the thigh-high slit, and flash of a leg that went on for a mile.

Several heads next to him turned, and the dim-witted, delusional comments regarding Redfield, and what these crass men might do with Redfield if given the opportunity, were enough for Wesker to excuse himself from unpleasant company and find his own solace, and order his conflicted thoughts, at a bar tucked into a corner of the ballroom's upper viewing gallery.

Kennedy, all black tie and white tux, stood out like a polar bear in the jungle, and the women tossed him admiring, double-take glances as freely as they tossed back their open bar alcohol.

If truth be told, and a lip-scrunching, bitter truth indeed, the duo made a handsome pair.

And it wasn't until later, when the chandelier lights dimmed, and the romantic lilt of a waltz brought the gala revelers into twirling motion, he bumped elbows with the inseparable couple on the dance floor.

Gliding his partner, a random blushing brunette plucked from the sidelines on a whim, close enough to hear Kennedy and Claire's whispered words, and angry enough to care.

Surveillance was a beautiful beast, addicting really, and with it he had learned many things over the years.

Garbage day at the current Redfield residence was Tuesday.

Redfield's on the side go-to girls never came to the door on a Friday, because Friday was reserved for Valentine.

When in town Christopher mowed his lawn on Sunday, the old fashioned way, with a push blade mower, a river of sweat and a dual can beer hat on his head.

Halloween, and their home was dark. The porch light turned out. No decorative plastic window clings stuck to the panes. No novelty witch doorknockers, or skeleton print leaf bags scattered on the front lawn. No lopsided, toothless grin pumpkin sticking out from behind the overgrowth of bushes that always seemed to find their way up and onto the Redfield front steps no matter where Christopher hung his hat and called it gravy.

Wesker stared at Kennedy's face. The pasty flesh had soured four shades of mottled gray, gone slack-jawed and relaxed in slumbered repose.

_This is what she chose. This is what she chooses. This...this...this limp, lifeless man._ Together. Not together. Alone. A couple. Like bungee cord she always snapped back. _To him._

Wesker whispered in Kennedy's ear. "Do you know what you are? You are a comfy pair of shoes. Sneakers, Agent Kennedy. Cheap. Off the rack. Traction less. Sneakers. Replaceable."

He set the high-heeled, ruby sequined pumps on the table.

###

Two figures stood sentry near a padlocked door. Both tall. One man was lean, the other a genetic abomination. Iowa corn fed on triple steroids.

Claire army-crawled to the edge of the weeds.

"I'm freezin' my fucking balls off. Been a long time. Think she'll show, Jack?"

These gentlemen were strappin', loud and proud. String Bean cradled an AK and Big Boy had, what appeared to be, an Uzi.

Big Boy turned and scanned the tree line and the thick, wild grass patches that shielded Claire's crouched form.

"She's already here. Nice engine purr on that 'Stang she parked ten minutes ago."

"What the fu-"

Big Boy jerked his head at the trees. "She's over there. Creepin'. Slinkin'. Thinkin' about how sneaky she is." He tromped out into the yard, and into the moonlight. "Ain't that right!"

_Jesus_! Claire cupped her hand over her mouth. He was, without a doubt, the largest man she had ever seen; twin sides of beef wrapped in muscle. She gulped, and pressed her stomach flat to the ground.

"Little Claire Redfield, little Claire Redfield, wants to come in, wants to come in. Not by the hairs on our chinny, chin, chin."

Sting Bean approached the rail. "Come on out, honey. We won't hurt ya."

Big Boy flicked his cigarette stub. "Speak for yourself. I wouldn't mind hurting her. You here me, Red! I wouldn't mind hurting you, not one damn bit!"

Now was a terrible time to have to pee, but nature was nature, and her bladder was painfully full. The tingle inside her nostril didn't help matters any. Sneeze, and it was game over.

Big Boy weaved back and forth across the yard, moving closer, jabbing his gun tip down into the brush. "Little Claire Redfield, little Claire Redfield, wants to come in, she wants to come in. She'd better show her fucking face, show her little fucking Claire Redfield face by the count of ten! Ten...Nine...Eight..."

_I'll _never_ make it back to the car. _

"Seven...Six..."

_Run? Where to? Out there? You don't leave junkyard dogs behind to guard...nothing._

"Five...Four..."

_He's so...Big. Abominable Snowman big_.

"Three...Two..."

_Leon. I came for Leon. Ada sent me here for a reason. This man might take me to him. Stupid, Leon! Stupid, me! _She took a deep breath, pushed herself onto her knees, and raised her hands in the air.

Big Boy's grin spread his lips from ear to ear.

"Don't shoot. I'm looking for Special Agent Kennedy. Please, just don't shoot."

String Bean nudged Big Boy with his elbow and flicked a switch on his headset. He mumbled into a mouthpiece.

Big Boy was at her side in one impossibly long stride. "Turn around, Sneak Queen. Spread your legs."

"I'm not armed."

He flashed black-speckled teeth. "No, but I am."

His nametag glinted in the moonlight. _J. Krauser_.

"Is this really necessary? I told you, I'm not carrying a weapon. Who are you?"

"The man who'll blow a hole right between your eyes if you don't turn around and spread your legs."

"You know who I am. Tell me who you are. Where's Agent Kennedy?"

A broad smile crinkled his pocked cheeks. "Not a problem." He raised his gun and pressed the barrel between her eyebrows. "I'm Mr. Uzi. My associate is Mr. AK. Clear enough for you?"

"Crystal."

"I'm not going to ask again."

J. Krauser kicked her feet apart. He ran his hands up her legs and over her ass. He stopped, for what seemed too long in Claire's opinion, between her thigh and her crotch.

"If you're finished."

Alcohol-laced breath brushed her earlobe. "And if I'm not?"

"I'm going to break your God damn hand."

Her arm went first, wrenched so far up her back her fingers brushed the base of her skull. Her knees went next, driven into the ground with a kick to the back of her legs. "I've got a better idea." He yanked her head back. "Why don't you take the bitch out of your voice and show me some respect."

"Come on, Jack. Let it alone. She's here. He's here. I wanna' get paid."

Big Boy shifted his gaze back and forth between them.

"You hurt her and it's on you. He wants her undamaged."

She was jerked upright and off her feet, an arm tucked beneath her breasts.

_He? He who_? _What the hell is going on here? What have I gotten myself into this time?_

J. Krauser deposited her on the porch and inserted a key into the padlock.

"Little Claire Redfield gets to go in, she gets to go in..."

He gave her shoulders a good shove and she stumbled into a narrow corridor lit by a row of low-watt bulbs, strung across flimsy wire and draped over rusted nails. A cool draft wafted rot and mildew.

The door slammed shut and she jumped when she heard the padlock click as it was locked into place.

_Lights are good. Lights mean power. A portable power source? A generator?_

The floor sloped down and away, cut sharply to the right, and disappeared into pockets of darkness. The disproportionately spaced light strand growing further and further apart.

Her legs refused to cooperate with her rising curiosity. _Going deeper inside instead of straight out_, her fear protested, _is the exact opposite of where you should go_. Christopher Redfield kidnap logic 101.

'Never get into a vehicle with a man pointing a gun. If you're going to die-which you surely will if you get into a car and allow yourself to be transported to a more discreet location-always, always, make your stand at the abduction point. At least that way there will be a body, instead of a mystery.'

_Who's going to find me now? How can I be so gullible? Ada cried Leon. I came running. _

Claire put her hands on her hips and stared into the corridor.

_Someone used Ada to throw the chum_. Baby steps propelled her forward. _Leon was the hook_. _J. Krauser and his pal were the rod and reel_._ So, who's driving the boat?_

She crept down two flights of uneven plank stairs, one hand braced against the wall to steady herself.

_What is the motive? Revenge? Someone angry with me? With Chris? Well, that's not hard to imagine. Chris has always been long on enemies and short on friends. He pisses everyone off. No reason to take it out on me. I never hurt anyone...well, anyone that didn't deserve it. Ok, anyone except for James._

The bottom of the stairs opened into a stairwell connected to a short hallway framed in earth and two by fours. She ducked beneath the low timbers.

_A ransom? Fat chance. I'm not worth squat._ _If blood were money I'd bleed pennies._

There was white light at the end of the hallway, gleaming and bright, like a blinding burst of headlight high beams on a deserted highway.

Claire raised her arm to shield her eyes and stepped into the light.

"Good evening, Claire. Nice of you to finally join us."

_That voice. I know that voice. It sounds exactly like...It can't be...He's dead. Dead! _

She blinked, and the contours of the room snapped into focus.

_Albert Wesker!_

Not a ghost.

_He lied._

A black-clad boogeyman of the mortal kind, as real as the sudden, violent twist of her stomach being wrung like dishrag, rising up from the ashes of her past to haunt her future.

He slid a chair away from a butcher-block table with the tip of his boot. "Have a seat. Kennedy is waiting."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Bargain

Part One

_It can't be. It's not possible. He's dead. Dead! Worm food. Maggot meat. Chris...He gave me his promise...I..._

For the first time in her life she was speechless. Unable to find the right combination of words to describe the unexpected, six foot one, smack her upside the head with a steel beam, surprise seated in front of her. So, she invented a few new phrases all her own, shit-a-skittle-fuck-a-duckle-doo and sha-damn-idly-sucky-fucky-dang, to name a quick few.

The trusty Redfield parachute sucked behind enemy lines, drifting a slow motion decent into familiar, hostile territory.

Her stomach squirmed in her gut like tiny, wriggling tadpoles in a muddy pond. The air thick with dust motes swirled in the flood lamp haze and the overpowering reek of his cologne.

Wesker simmered on content. Legs straddled across a chair, chin rested on arms folded over the top of its pine-knotted frame. Straight-faced, with a hint of his patent- able, malicious grin tucked into the corner of his tightly drawn lips.

"You're dead!" She shook an accusing finger. "Dead! My brother-"

"Your brother did what he does best. Fail."

"No! He...h-he killed you. He watched you die. He promised. He made sure."

"He lied, Claire. Told you exactly what he believed you needed to hear." Wesker clasped his hands over his heart. "Tell me is there no greater devotion than the love of a brother with intent to deceive when he has brotherly promises to keep and sisterly fears to relieve?"

"My brother doesn't lie!"

"Dear Brother is many things. Murderer. Information Extortionist. Plastic Explosive Guru. Wheelman. Womanizer. I see no reason to exclude Fibber Extraordinaire from such an extensive list. Contrary to your naïve belief, Christopher is quite the little liar, liar. I dare say his pants are constantly on fire. Flame retardant must be in high demand and short supply when in the presence of your company."

Claire squeezed her eyes shut. _This isn't happening. It's some horrible nightmare. Chris promised. He made sure. He told me. He told me! _Her feet slowly backpedaled.

"I would advise against doing what you are, predictably I might add, considering."

An outstretched arm groped for the empty air of the doorway.

"If you should decide upon hostile negotiations, given a childish instinct to run, I am afraid there will be consequences." His grin broadened. "Enjoyable for myself, distasteful to you, and downright dire for Prince Charming."

"Where is he, Wesker?"

"Become uncooperative and I guarantee you will spend the next several unpleasant hours playing fifty-two card pickup with Kennedy's bones. I would suggest you change into your big girl panties and do exactly as you are told. A challenge I know, given your gene pool, but it is rather difficult to come to an agreement at a bartering table when a vital participant is missing. You have been given a part to play, Claire. You get to concede."

_Concede?_ Bargaining with Wesker was akin to a patient debating with a sadistic doctor over whether to keep an arm or a leg in an unnecessary amputation operation. Neither option acceptable nor appealing for the future amputee. A gimp was a crip and one sorry handicapped 'tard. Give this bastard a toe and he'd swoop around and hack off the remaining nineteen digits in spite. "Just let him go. He served his purpose. I'm here."

"Not likely. You are a poor negotiator, and we have much to discuss. Do you expect to receive something for nothing? You will have to do better than a half-assed demand."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "How do I know you're not jerking my chain? That this cheap stunt isn't some fresh, slick, steaming pile of your same tired old bullshit."

He rose, pushed the chair aside. His shadow doubled his height and width, and she felt her knees cave inward and her heart hop an extra beat.

"Because, unlike Christopher, I have never told you a lie."

"Stop it! Your saying it doesn't make it true."

"Correct. My standing before you makes my statement true."

"It means nothing. You survived. My brother didn't know. End of story."

"Afraid not. Christopher has been well aware of my continued existence for quite some time. I can only conjecture as to why he did not share his knowledge with you."

"Because he didn't know."

"He did. He does. You may feel free to question his unfathomable logic when he has recovered from our recent altercation, but given his propensity for falsehood I would take the words he spews with a fifty gallon drum of salt."

Claire's jaw flopped open. _'Chris got into some hand to hand combat with an unknown assailant at Spencer's estate.'_

"It was you!"

"Getting warm." He darted left.

"You were at Spencer's mansion."

He spun right and whipped around to face her. Magician movement, a dash of slight of hand stride, almost impossible for her eyes to track. "Warmer."

Compressed into a corner. His twin eye gleam beamed back at her from the depths of the ebony wall shadows smoothed onto his black clothes. Metallic blue shirt threads shimmered like twinkling stars.

"You fought with Chris...You...You...Oh, my God. You were the one who killed Spencer."

There was a stir of dust and a feather light finger stroke across her cheek. "Warmer still."

Claire rotated in a circle, tracked his movement by the swish of his coat. Randomly swatted the air, a split second too late. "You killed Spencer. You tried to kill Chris. And..." Her stomach plummeted to the floor. "You killed Jill."

"Close, no cigar," he whispered in her ear.

"Which part? Answer me. Jill? Is it Jill? Is she alive?"

Standing by the table, combat stance, his fickle grin played now you see me and now you don't with the frown etched on his face. "Yet again you ask for an ocean, and offer a stream trickle in return."

"I'm not giving you one damn thing. Nothing. Nada."

"I beg to differ. Kennedy's predicament ensures I currently have your undivided attention, and later-"

"I don't believe you."

"I am far more credible than Dear Brother."

"Says you. An honest psychopath, that'll be the day. Leon isn't here, and there isn't going to be any later. I want out. You let me out. I want out! Let me out!"

"I want out. Let me out," he mimicked. "To where? Back to the positively palatial roach motel you call home. Crawling on your hands and knees to the pretty please, save the world for our children earth lovers who tossed you out on your backside without so much as a thank you. The only thing TerraSave wants from you is to be rid of you."

"How would you know? How?"

"Not all of my friends reside in squalid, bilge water burgs. Some are influential. Some are handy. Some make their fortunes from the wallets of the very men your brother has made a living, albeit not a very good living, trying to destroy. I know more than you can imagine. Therefore, I shall ask again, where would you like to go? Outside? To my associates? I would think twice before I requested such idiocy."

_Not one toe_. "I'm not asking. I'm telling. I'll take my chances with Big Boy and String Bean."

"And sign Kennedy's death warrant? Your own? Mr. Krauser and Prince Charming have a rather tumultuous history. They parted company on unfriendly terms. My comrade is aware of your relationship with Kennedy, and would be only too happy to extract vengeance in the form of torture, yours to be exact. The very least he will do is break your neck, and anything else will be icing on a broken leg cake. Lunacy, thy last name is Redfield."

"So, let me see...My choices are a quick, painful death, or...I get to stay and suffer whatever mental cancer and degradation you care to inflict. Gosh. Lucky me. Hmmm...Mr. Trebek, I'm afraid I've decided not to play Wesker's Jeopardy, and I'll have to take neither for one thousand dollars."

"I did not offer you a choice. I merely stated the obvious. We have business to conduct. Kindly plant your ever so delightful to look at derriere onto that chair, and remove your boots, or I will plant it there for you."

"I've got a better idea." She flipped a middle finger. "Why don't you fuck off and go straight back to whatever Bermuda Triangle black hole spawned you."

He was as quick as Big Boy was big, a black-streaked, blur whirlwind.

_It's_-

Faster than a finger flinch. A raised hand sliced through the air.

_Incre_-Claire's head flew backward and her legs dropped out from under her. The sting of his open palm whiplash crack and five-finger imprint stamped on her cheek.

_Son-of-a-bitch!_ She moaned, curled her legs to her chest, and instinctively buried her head beneath her arms.

"Hostile it is. How disappointing." He grabbed her mud-stained boot.

Claire pitched onto her stomach. "Let me go!" Kicking. Clawing the floorboards. "I want out! Leave me alone!" Her fingernails scraped wood and splinters were shoved up and under her fingernail tips. The hallway darkness, the only path to freedom, shrank into a dark speck, slowly extinguished in the flood light glare. "I'm worth nothing to you! Nothing, Wesker!"

"That remains to be discovered."

Her head butted against the chair. It teetered on its wobbly legs and clattered to the floor.

Wesker wrenched her leg sideways and she flopped onto her back.

"Leave me alone. Get your hands off!"

"And whom is going to stop me? You? Prince Charming? Dear Brother?"

His grin parted the stone-carved curve of his lips, mocking and cruel. The laughter that followed swift and piercing, laced with contempt. It stung worse than the burn on her cheek.

Her hands brushed the chair. Better than nothing and worth more than a prayer. She wrapped her fingers around its legs. _You don't get to touch me. Not now. Not ever!_

Claire hauled the chair airborne and smashed it against his thigh. The wood crunched bone and leather and snapped into bits and pieces.

And there was instant silence. He wasn't laughing now. The whites of his eyes flared tiger orange.

In her shaking hands remained two splintered stubs, and she would have gladly driven them into her own eye sockets to erase the instant pinch of demonic hellfire fury and surprise she watched maul and scald the smooth features of Albert Wesker's face into contorted rage.

He growled and his chest collided with hers, knocking her flat on her back. The wind sucked from her lungs. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Pinned beneath a slab of tensioned muscle.

His legs straddled her hips. Fingers tore at her jacket and shirt. She heard the pop of buttons, and a series of metal pings as the buttons bounced onto the floor and rolled into darkness. The push of his palm against her breast. The elastic snap of her bra strap, and a cold rush of air on her exposed flesh.

She slapped the supple leather of his coat. Feeble and wild, her blows like raindrops splattered on concrete. His face buried in the hollow of her neck.

"Behave," he breathed, gathering her slaphappy hands into his grip and pinning them above her head.

"Get off me! Stop touching me! Leave me be!"

"It does not have to be this way. Submit, or I will humiliate you."

Wesker nudged her body with his hips. "Do you understand? Persist, and I will leave you in a pool of shame, traces of me running down between your thighs, while I settle up with Kennedy on my own accord. You will watch him expire. I will take you again before he closes his eyes and breathes his last. He will die with the sound of your screams in his ears, the vision of you beneath me, and the knowledge he did nothing to save you. Is this what you desire? Yes? No? Decide, Claire. Or, I will decide for you."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Bargain

Part 2

Chris Redfield. Ultimatums 102. A sermon delivered on an ice and snow crusted driveway. Six o'clock on an overcast December morning. Claire bundled in her jacket, a knit cap pulled low over the tops of her ears. Chris hunkered down beside a wheel-well. 'Ultimatums are verbal weapons. They're word bullies.'

The sting on her cheek didn't feel verbal. In fact, it felt pretty damn physical. Her jaw was on fire. Fingernails broken and bent, the imbedded wooden slivers throbbed pain into the fleshy parts beneath the tips.

_I'm going to puke_. Her thoughts spun like a strobe light bouncing off the sides of her skull._ It isn't fair. He smells like my brother. Evil should reek of corruption, rotten egg, and vomit. Demented perversion and lamppost lickin' crazy shouldn't smell like trust. Chris is good and decent and...and..._

'Ultimatums never work. Know why?'

Claire ran a glove under her runny nose and shoved her hands deep into her jacket sleeves, hugging warmth to her chest. An extra pair of socks would have been nice. If Chris talked less, he'd swap faster.

'Because you can't control the person on the receiving end of the threat.'

It looked like Sandra, Shandra, Shandee, whatever the heck her name, had done a damn fine job controlling her brother. Miss Two Cans of Aqua Net wasn't the one sucking bone-chill wind into her lungs, and working up a clammy sweat changing out a slashed tire.

'You think you've got 'em cornered. You'll do this, if they don't do that. It's a tattle-tale game, and I'll let you in on a secret...'

Wesker had given her nothing concrete to prove his advantage. Nothing, she moved her jaw side to side, except a sore cheek, a swollen lip, and the promise of his unwanted affection.

Said lip curled in disgust. The same promise he'd delivered on a cold-swept corridor floor in Antarctica.

'Despise me. Suffocate me in your anger. Save a serving of equal measure for your brother. He is the instrument that brought you to me. Pushing. Prodding. Never satisfied in his tireless crusade. He has made it his business to interfere in my business. Tell him what I have done. What I will do. Ignite his rage. I flourish in his contempt, refugee in his vengeance. Boo-hoo your own innocence." He'd pressed his forehead onto hers. "I look forward to regaling him with the details. Using you. Discarding you.'

_Take away the threat and the ultimatum has no power. _Her eyes flashed bright, September sky blue_. _

Wesker's face was blank as a white oil painter's canvas, impossible to read. Watching. Waiting.

_He said he's never lied to me. _What was his word worth_? _Did it hold more value than her brother's? According to Wesker Chris's closet was filled to the brim with a secret slagheap just waiting to topple on Claire's head when she turned the handle and opened the door.

'Be prepared for some nasty, fuckin' fallout. People vindictive enough to think they've got you bent over a barrel, pants around your ankles, are ready to fuck. Grit your teeth. If you won't deal, try not to squeal.'

_Chris_..._He could have warned me. _How deep did the lie sinkhole go? Was Wesker talkin' buried pet in the backyard deep, or half way to China steep? _All I wanted _was_ a steak._ Her stomach growled.

_Leon knew_. He'd accepted the occupational hazards when he put on his uniform and slipped his gun into his holster. _Damn it! Who made it my job to make sure Mr. Super Duper Awesome Agent lives to see daylight?_

They'd both been spun, wrung, and hung out to dry._ What else does Leon know? _Were they all in collusion together?_ Dumbasses!_

She gulped, and relaxed her tense muscles.

A morphine bag, no intravenous line required. She'd chug it like an alcoholic. A rib-bursting rip off a rolled fattie to render her body lettuce numb and her brain imbecile dumb for the next five, God forbid ten, what were sure to be, impossibly long minutes.

'Take away the threat and the ultimatum has no power.'

She fidgeted a leg out from under his weight and slowly coiled it around his waist with a slight upstroke of her knee on the back of his thigh.

Michael Buffer's beefy baritone voice yodeled his infamous 'Let's get readddy to ruummmbbbllllle' in her head.

Wesker's eyebrow arched, and he said nothing. Her wrists suddenly released from his iron grip constraint.

Claire gritted her teeth. His name poised on the tip of her hesitant tongue, foul as a curse word in a church.

"Albert..." She beamed a wicked grin of her own, unnatural and forced. _I'm going to make you gag regret for this, this, and everything else you've ever done. _"There's no need for further violence. I promise," she crossed her big toe over its closest counterpart, "to behave."

"Docile is not in the Redfield dictionary."

She traced his arms up and over his biceps.

Mass hatred and revulsion aside, awful implications considered and momentarily suspended, the situation could have been worse. Wesker wasn't Leon, but at least he was clean. Sans halitosis and paunch-gut.

Her hand lingered on the back of his neck, drawing his head closer as she ran her fingers into the surprisingly soft locks of hair.

_Soap scrubs everything_. Claire pinched her eyes shut when their mouths met. _Everything, except my conscious_.

There were Leon images. His face boiled beet red, shaking his head. Repulsed by her actions. 'You should have fought him.'

_Easy for you to say_.

Chris's equally crimson face, his glassy gaze filled with enough shame to reduce her self-respect down to insect size. 'That's some traitorous bullshit. What the fuck were you thinking?'

_That the world isn't large enough for the both of you, and what Wesker did to you is nothing in comparison to what I'm going to do_.

Wesker. 'How did it feel to sell yourself to a man like me?'

_Pretty. Damn. Terrible_.

A few movie stars she wouldn't mind sharing a one-night, hell, two-minute tumble in the sheets. Fantasy encounters a damn sight more comforting than the reality of the demanding, stonehearted, son-of-a-bitch unbuttoning her jeans.

Wesker's tongue parted her lips. "Moan for me."

_Not for all the sand in the Sahara!_ _This is what happens when you lie. It revolves around to bite you in the ass!_ And it wasn't Chris's half-naked rump scraping mildewed hardwood. _Thank you, very much, Bro_! Physical wounds were temporary. Mental scars endured a lifetime.

A grimace here, an involuntary squirm there. Neutralizing his threat did not mean giving him an ounce of pleasure in exchange for a pound of her emotional pain.

The heat of his lips seared soft kisses onto her cheek, trailed down into the hollow of cleavage between her breasts. "You think you are so sly."

Her breath caught in her throat.

His head snapped up, and the mischievous grin returned, folded back into his mouth corners, back where it somehow belonged.

"A seduction suggestion, if I may? At least make an effort to have your facial expressions match your suggestive body language. You look as though you have inhaled noxious gas. It is rather...unattractive. If you intend to whore yourself for my benefit, extend me the common courtesy of an Oscar worthy performance. You are a woman, and women are excellent sexual frauds. I am not a fan of poorly acted, neighborhood, playhouse theatre."

"Wesker-"

Not her face this time, her hair. His hand burrowed in the tangled mass, palming her skull like a ball, and the sound of ripe carrots being ripped from the ground as he hauled her to her knees.

"Albert when you tease. Wesker when you freeze."

_Owww, owww, owww...owee_...Instantly on her feet, body half-hunched, moving with him step for painful step.

"Let go! Damn it, Wesker, you're pulling it out by the roots. Albert! Do you want to see me bald?"

"Are you finally willing to dicker? It means barter. You give me something I want, and I will give you something you need."

"I need, and want, my hair! You're not bargaining, Wesker. You're taking advantage. There's been no reciprocal give and take."

"A moment ago you seemed quite eager to 'give' in your pathetic attempt to remove yourself from the equation and spare Prince Charming a disconcerting visual. The 'take' is a minor detail I can easily rectify."

"Wesker! This is madness. Stop! You're hurting me. You want the road of least resistance. You want me to listen-"

"I am afraid you will be required to do more than lend me your attentive ear."

"I'll do whatever it takes to-"

"Relieve a compromising position."

"What else did you expect? You claim you know so much. You're some all-knowing swami. You must have known how I'd react. Wesker, you can't punish me for being myself. Acting myself."

"In a word, cooperation."

He spun her around, wedged her between the table and himself and inched her backward, the weight of his chest pressed her down, further down, with each word he spoke. Teeth clenched.

"Consider this Kennedy's final warning. Breathe in a manner I dislike, and he dies. Move in a direction you were not ordered to go, and he dies. Speak in a tone that displeases me-"

"And he dies." Claire's lips quivered.

He gripped her chin, squeezed her lips together, and ran a thumb over the plump contours. "See how easy it is to compromise. Agree is your new best friend. You had better own my generous mercy like your regrettable last name."

Claire was thirteen again. Age innocence wouldn't save her. Her brother wasn't going to materialize out of thin air to throw himself in harm's way. The submission price for this Let's Make A Deal round more valuable than computer access, and worse than the embarrassment of a poinsettia eye sore wrapped around her slender frame.

Instead of a mound of sweater fugliness on the table, there were other things, items she'd failed to notice in the initial panic, escape, rush flushed through her veins.

A flaming, hussy-red pair of stiletto pumps, her shoe size imprinted on the inner heels.

A laptop with a spinning Earth logo overlaid on the top of a flaming skull and crossbones background.

Just out of reach, an arm's length away, there was a wide strip of plastic sheeting fastened over a curved metal rod. The rod anchored to the ceiling timbers with thick iron nails. The tattered folds jutted out a good six feet from the wall.

Her gaze was drawn to the makeshift shower curtain. Her brother had it all wrong. Wesker wasn't all doom and ghoul, and evil wrapped in skin without a soul. Wesker was a showman. The P.T. Barnum of viral manufacture and sales. Proud of his wicked, warped sense of humor and grotesque bio weapon menagerie. _What else is Chris wrong about?_

_I've seen this before. In my dream. Maroon. Sherry. It was Sherry. Floating. And he'd done something unspeakable. Something hideous._

The hairs on her arms prickled and her mouth ran dry as chalk. Afraid. Afraid of what a top hat and redcoat ringmaster Wesker might show her. Terrified of what she might see. _Leon_. Behind the sheet. She felt it. Felt it like the flood lamp heat on her face, Wesker's warm breath in her ear. As sure as she was hungry Leon was here, right here in the room, and like a train wreck she found it impossible to look away.

The hellish-orange gleam in his eyes flickered fire-ember red. He followed her gaze, lowered his face onto hers, and there they lay, cheek-to-cheek, smooth skin on smooth skin.

"I wish to run an experiment. Your participation is mandatory. Prince Charming is optional. Agree to my terms, and Kennedy goes free."

"There is no way I'm going to let you turn me into one of your lab monkeys, Wesker. I'd jab those spike heels into my jugular before I'd let you Frankenstein me into a freak."

"No needles. No serums. No test tubes. No cages. The experimental scope is personal, not chemical in nature."

"I want to see Agent Kennedy."

"Agent? Agent Kennedy? My, my. Do you think formality will save him? I will miraculously be deceived as to the depth of your feelings and your emotions?"

Wesker's weight shifted, but his steady gaze remained, and she was grateful for the long, loose hair strands that partially obscured her vision.

Her fingers clutched the front of her torn shirt and jacket over her exposed chest. "Wesker, I need to know-"

"All in good time."

"Your time is now."

He hitched a leg over the table edge and sat down on its rough-hewn, plank boards. "On a scale of one to ten on the disagreeable meter I rate your demand a seven. I am beginning to believe you enjoy corporeal punishment."

He tapped the computer keys, and a series of low rumbles shook the ground in subtle vibration. Fine dirt grains rained dust from the ceiling.

A blue-tinged glow seeped out from beneath the jagged sheet hem and there was the gentle lap of water sloshed against the sides of a container_. Motors and water_.

One by one the portable lights were extinguished. The laptop glare and the muted, blue light aura behind the sheet remained.

"Sit up."

_Here we go_. _Deal? Squeal?_ _Hope for the best? _Leon's limbs still attached to the correct, corresponding arm and leg sockets. _Expect the worst_. A human centipede.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Bargain Part 3

Lay It On The Line

"Man is the blink of an eye on an evolutionary time line. Life is a primordial accident, fragile in design and elegant in construction. A vast, complex conglomeration of corruptible and, with recent advances in scientific knowledge, easily manipulated cells."

"From a purely clinical standpoint modern man is a biological revolution, and a sad footnote in the appendix of Earth's tome of existence. We are everything. We are nothing."

"Our species is the greatest destructive force in the Universe. This Planet is our commodity. It provides means of shelter, food, and the very oxygen our lungs consume, and in return we plumb her shifting crust for the power to fuel our vehicles and quell our diamond ring vanities."

"Like a mother it nurtured us. Gave us abundant forests to build our homes, fertile soil to feed our masses, and protein rich wildlife to lengthen our bones and clothe our skin. The world taught us where to live, where to hunt, how to survive. It revealed our grass is greener greed mentality, and consumed by this greed man learned how to jab sharpened, pointy sticks at his neighbor. More. More. More. Wanting ever more."

"Remarkable, is it not, this fascinating, almost coincidental and surprisingly fortuitous shift from single-cell organism to consciousness? Where once we crawled, we learned to walk. When we walked the wild grew tame, humanity begat society, and grunts turned into names."

There was wistful sadness in his words. Harsh facial lines softened in almost reflective reminisce, a rare glimpse into the fractured psyche of the Albert he was before the Wesker he became.

_Where is a notebook when I need it, a tape recorder?_

"How do you envision destiny, Claire?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question. Destiny as a concept? My destiny?" _Leon's destiny_.

"My apologies. Simple elaboration is best when engaged in discussions with all persons named Redfield. Vocalization of your inner monologue on your own destiny will suffice."

"I've never really thought about it much. Some days I wake up and I'm happy just to be. Other days..."

"You lack ambition. A definitive purpose."

"Being content with what I have is not a lack of ambition, Wesker."

"Are you truly content, Claire? Satisfied with mediocrity?"

"I'd rather be a plain Jane than..."

"Proceed. You have my permission to slander me in cheap, irrelevant comparison."

"A marauding Mary."

"And Dear Brother, do you think he will ever be content?"

"Can't we leave Chris out of this? Just for once. He's not here to defend himself."

"Good thing too, his defensive abilities make him agile as an elephant."

He rotated the laptop to face her and her gaze drifted from the tattered sheet to the screen.

_My dream house_. A bit weathered. Somewhat worn. Two stories. A pitched roof, oversize dormer windows, and a sun-stripped wrap-a-round porch with a swinging bench suspended from the slanted porch rafters. _Jesus, is the man a mind reader too?_

"After the mansion incident I fled to France. Angry. Resolute. Disillusioned. My destiny twined into my existence from my very un-humble beginning, I found it difficult to reconcile my failure in Raccoon city."

A circular drive framed in a grove of low-bough trees.

"I had an epiphany in France, a self revelation I have been powerless to shake."

Blue and white-checkered curtains.

"I went to purchase a two-seat Aston Martin nineteen forty-eight roadster with a three-part grille from a private seller in Auvergne, and to secure a warehouse to store my growing collection of vehicles on the European continent. I am a collector, Claire. I currently possess one hundred and ten of the most pristine, vintage automobiles to be found on the planet."

"So. Good for you. You dig cars. Your point?"

"I met a man, an uneducated, discreet man. He had nothing but volcanic soil to his name. Soil, and several garaged vehicles that had not seen the twist of a country road since his father sat behind the dash. The land and the cars were his heritage. His birthright. We sealed our deal over a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti and a Potée Auvergnate Casserole, a regional dish of cabbage and pork."

"How pleasant."

"It might have been, if the man had not been eager to sell his family history right out from under the selfish bastards he called his four ungrateful sons."

"Wesker-"

"The man had made choices, Claire. Un-retractable choices. Beneath the wane of candlelight, rain-sopped skies, and a generous consumption of wine, his tongue loosened. He spoke of long dead acquaintances. Lost loves. A bastard child sired from a mistress who knew him as his father and wanted nothing of an inheritance except for his name, a minute acknowledgement of a bloodline bond. And as he droned on, pondering the blight of his remarkably uneventful life, it came to me. My revelation."

"For all that I am, for all I have yet to achieve, for all of my knowledge, I am ignorant. I have never experienced life as an ordinary man. You, Claire, are the antithesis of my entire existence. The yin to my yang. The highway exit not taken. For every Bogart there is a Bacall. For every Hades a Persephone, or to phrase it in a more Redfield term, for every Barbie there must be a Ken."

"You are the moon that swells the tide, and I have been powerless to resist your lunar pull. Make no mistake, the thought of screwing you and by proxy screwing Christopher is not without a certain, undeniable, appeal. But, it is not the driving force that binds us together."

"Our destiny is inescapable. You were present the day I decided to rise above the depths of the rank and file common man, the moment I shunned the responsibility of husband and father. The moment I denied myself four ungrateful sons and a clump of soil to call my own. I suspect your presence will follow me to whatever my final outcome. You, Claire Redfield, are my personal loose end."

He'd said a mouthful, and then some. Wesker, a bona-fide stalker. Appalling as it was perplexing. She had to give him credit. Most men, eager to invade their dream girl's life, narrowed harassment to the basics. A few midnight, impromptu, house stakeouts. Random text messages and phone calls.

"You reap what you sow, Wesker. You wanted to harvest power and loneliness. Sounds to me like you got exactly what you wanted."

"A man can plant many crops. Choice is an unlimited reservoir. That being said, the bargain I propose, the reason you are here, is simple. Your time in exchange for Kennedy's life."

"You're joking. Please, tell me this is a joke."

"My agenda is sincere."

"No, really. You can't be serious. It's preposterous. Complicated. You went through a considerable amount of trouble to engineer a laughable farce."

His turn to scoff. "If I had come to you with a genuine offer Dear Brother would have greeted me on the front porch with a double barrel hello right between my eyes. Your ever to the ready middle finger would have been a follow up blast. I am afraid a firmer touch was required. Kennedy guarantees a yes response."

"There are women you can pay to spend time with you. They're called prostitutes."

"And miss an opportunity to drive a wedge between my two most favorite people in the whole wide world."

Claire stared down at the computer screen. "Miller's Cove...A great place to visit-"

"A better place to live. I took the liberty of transposing the adjacent town slogan on top of the house photo."

"It's...Charming."

"One might consider rustic a more appropriate analogy. For the purpose of our social experiment it is ideal, a thoroughly average, appropriately humble abode. Soon to be my home away from home. Our home away from home."

My, as in solo, didn't sound like much to worry about. If Wesker wanted to take a vacation from nefarious evil masterminding and troll a farmhouse, let him. The 'our', as in we, raised the hairs on her neck.

"Uh-uh. No way."

He continued as though her 'no way' had been a 'count me in.' "I must confess I look forward to a bit of reclusive solitude. My schedule has been hectic. Global domination consumes a surprising amount of resources and comprises a hell of a lot of work. Schemes do not hatch themselves." He dipped his head into the meager light to see her face and cracked a grin.

Claire shrank back, and his grin was slowly stripped away.

"Truthfully, Claire, I am exhausted. Weak as thrice brewed coffee. Non-stop travel has taken a heavy toll. I need rest. Recuperation. I need to rid myself of your nagging loose end once and for all."

"I hope you don't expect me to feel sorry for you, because I don't. I don't want to play house with you Wesker."

"What you want is oddly irrelevant to me."

A spiral blur spun Wesker toward the plastic sheet.

"You don't have to do this, any of this. Please Wesker, we can all just walk away."

He emerged out of thin air in a burst of black leather. "Excellent advice. Do make it a point to share the sentiment with Christopher."

"Leon is not part of this madness, this insane feud with my brother. He's never done anything to you." _Rushing water. Motors_. _It'll be ok. Whatever he's done. It'll be ok. Let it be ok. He's ok. _

"Perhaps, you had best consider what Prince Charming wants." He yanked the sheet from the rod with an exaggerated, bullfighter sweep of his arms. "Oxygen, for example, or lack thereof, might be an excellent place to start."

The airtight container resembled an upright coffin. The front part of the see-thru casing fashioned out of bronze-tinted, two inch thick, bullet resistant glass. The bottom and side panels constructed from polished chrome steel.

Enough electrical wires to power up a Nasa space shuttle running down the sides of the container. Two pump hoses encased beneath a metal grate snaked around the back of the case.

Leon's downcast head bathed in the eerie, somewhat ghostly glow of blue, plastic-bubbled, lights.

_Water!_ Filthy, rust-colored water swirling around Leon's waist, sloshing against the glass as it rose higher and higher.

Claire scrambled across the table on her hands and knees and stumbled over her legs onto the floor. "You miserable son-of-a-bitch. Is he-"

"Dead? I considered putting an end to his misguided existence, but I found little satisfaction without a certain witness for his execution. Fear not, Claire, he has merely been given a sedative. I took the liberty of IV hydration as well after his unscheduled desert marathon. Although, it appears Agent Kennedy's lungs will have all the hydration they do not need when the water in the tank rises above his head." Wesker flicked his wrist to check his watch. "The pump system is on a timer. As the clock ticks down more water is fed into the chamber. According to my calculations complete submersion will occur in approximately two minutes."

Claire pressed her palms and forehead to the glass. Cold. Cold as Wesker's heart. Speechless.

_He knew the risks. Men like Wesker are part of the risk._

_Goodbye means forever. _

_I can't. _

_Can you wake up tomorrow, and every day after, and know he's gone. _

"Two weeks, Claire."

He might as well have said two years. _Damage control. _"You'll let him go?"

"Provided you adhere to my conditions."

"How do I know you'll honor your word?"

There was the gentle vibration of the floor beneath her feet as another motor kicked into gear.

The dirty brown water surged around Leon's chest.

"Killing Kennedy to spite you does not an eager to participate captive make, and if the truth be known Prince Charming provides a security challenge unmatched only by your brother. The world is a far more interesting place with Captain Destruction and his wanna be commando sidekick stumbling across the globe and wallowing in their own stupidity."

An indirect answer and an insult. Both would have to suffice. The water was rapidly inching its way up the inside of the container. Next stop, Leon's neck.

"Name his price."

"You agree to accompany me tonight of your own free will. During the course of our mutual confinement there will be no attempt to escape, or contact to an outside third party for assistance."

"I can't make myself disappear, Wesker. I'm under house arrest. The authorities will discover I'm missing as soon as Agent James' accident is investigated."

"Negotiation and back door bribes are my specialty."

"And my brother? He's on his way. He may have already landed. I can't explain a prolonged absence. He'll think it mighty damn suspicious when I don't put in an appearance at his bedside."

"The extent of my influence applies to your government keepers. What you choose to tell Dear Brother is your own affair. Do what Redfield's do best. Lie. Oh, to be a proverbial fly on the wall at the brother and sister round table reunion."

"And Leon?"

"After we have departed my associates will transport Kennedy to the nearest major hospital. The sedative he was given will keep him down for several days. Kennedy awakens with nothing more than a nuclear size headache and a fuzzy memory. He will not remember his middle name, let alone our encounter before your arrival."

"How do I know your muscle won't kill him after we've gone?"

"Because Mr. Krauser is in need of a little miracle drug I provide that prevents him from parading his internal organs on the outside of his skin."

Claire squeezed her eyes shut. _He knew the risks. I can't let him go._

"I should imagine a thank you would be in order. A comatose man will drown without the pointless panic of a struggle."

"You win," she mumbled.

"One more time. Louder."

The words belonged to him, dredged from a moment that seemed to have occurred a lifetime ago. "Are you willing to dicker, it means barter. You win. I will give you something you want, but I have a few conditions of my own."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Exchanges

'Here,' he nudged her arm, 'drink this.'

Claire lifted the tin cup to her mouth and wrinkled her nose. 'Whiskey?'

'It'll warm you up. Take the edge off.' He snagged a lighter from his pocket and pinched a cigarette between his lips. 'We're gonna be here a while. They're de-icing the plane. How's the shoulder?'

'Sore,' she mumbled into the cup.

'I believe it.' Chris crouched and tucked stray hairs behind her ear. 'Could have been worse.'

'I suppose.'

'I've seen everything. You name it. I've seen it. Hell, I've probably done it. Scratch that,' he grinned, 'don't name it, because I'd never be able to admit some of that crazy shit to my sister. I gotta say though I've never in my life seen a bruised lip. Fat lip. Split lip. Dry lip. Hair li-'

'I get it,' she snapped.

'He do that to you?'

'No.'

'Claire, look at me. Hey, no, no, no, look at me. When you were alone with Wesker, he try anything with you?'

'Oh for the love of God. No.'

'You're sure.'

'I fell.'

'On your face?'

'Pretty much.'

'I think you should see a therapist.'

'A shrink? Jill, I don't need a shrink.'

'Might be good for you. A professional, unbiased opinion.'

'I'm not crazy.'

'Combat. Death. It takes a toll, mental as well as physical. Chris told me about the nightmares. Talking your way through things may help.'

'Marry me. You. Me. Couple of gorgeous kids.'

'Leon-'

'We're good apart, let's be great together.'

She stared at the rim of the cup. 'I was worried about you. Looked for you. Thought I'd never find you. How could you just...just walk away? We're family. We're supposed to stick together.'

He sighed. 'I could give you a thousand reasons, not one you'd understand. It seemed for the best, and it's as honest an answer as I can give. I don't want you involved in my mess. You should have stayed out of Raccoon...and Paris. You weren't meant to be here.'

'Here we go again. Brother knows everything. Brother is always right. Can't you just say good job, glad you were with me because I needed you, and be done with it?'

'Hell no! My business isn't your business. You aren't a soldier. You have no field training. I don't need you Rambo-ed up, running around all G.I. Jane pretending you've got my back.'

'For your information, I did just fine on my own.'

He held up his hand and one at a time raised his fingers. 'One, I told you to stay on campus. You didn't, and ended up smack fucking dab in the middle of a mess. If I didn't think Bangs was such a sneaky, two-timing, double fuck douche bag I'd be forced to thank his sorry ass for making sure my sister made it out of zombie central alive. Two-'

'How dare you? You make it sound like I used him as a shield and that he carried me over itty bitty puddles so I wouldn't get my dainty little feet wet. I stood fucking front and center and took my chances the same as Leon.'

'Watch your mouth.'

'Oh, please forgive me, Chris Double-Standard Redfield.'

'Damn fucking straight. I do what I do to keep you safe. I say what I say to help keep your nightmares away. I sleep in shit holes so you don't have to, and all I ask is for you to respect me enough to trust my judgment. When I say not to do something it is not your starting gun to fuck me over behind my back and do it anyway. You could have gotten yourself killed...Or worse.'

'But I didn't. I'm still here. We're still here. You get to tell me I told you so, and you get to be the big hero. The man who killed Albert Wesker.'

He leaned back and took a long cigarette drag. 'Yeah...Imagine that...'

They'd unwound in a bevy of sleep. Took turns rummaging the medicine cabinet. Chris suffered in silence, hunched over like an eighty year old man.

Claire set a bowl in front of him. 'Let me call a chiropractor.'

'I don't need a quack. I need a different profession.'

'You're suffering. You can barely walk, and beds were invented to be slept in. You're sweating all over the couch cushions.'

'The damn mattress is too soft.' He pushed the bowl aside. 'I told Jill it was too soft.'

'What if you've really damaged something this time? Wouldn't you want to know? Maybe you need more than rest to make it better.'

'Thanks Web MD, but no thanks. Doctor visits mean questions. BSAA'll put me on leave.'

'Well, shouldn't you be? You're not going to be jumping out of airplanes with a bad back.'

'Jesus, are you and Jill part of a WWF tag team? Damn. No quack. A few more days and everything will be fine.'

Wesker's boot brushed against her foot. "An unlimited draft on my bank account for your thoughts."

Claire nudged back with a shove of her own. "It's a limo, Wesker. Plenty of leg room."

He nudged again. Harder. "My limo, my leg room."

Claire shifted in her seat, drew her legs to her chest, and pressed herself up against the car door. "Take it. It's yours."

"Is it really so much of an effort to have a conversation, Claire? A friendly chat between acquaintances."

"No, Wesker. Friends have conversations. They commiserate. They share secrets. They're there when you need a shoulder to lean on. There...Forget it. You're not my friend. I don't want to know you. I don't want to get to know you. You purchased my company. If you had wanted conversation you should have included the request in a package deal. Get used to the sound of your own breath, because over the next two weeks that's the only sound you're going to hear. At the first available opportunity I'm buying a bottle of super glue and conveniently sealing my lips shut."

"Spare me your melodrama. If you desire sealed lips I know a few surgeons who can oblige you in accomplishing your threat. Permanently."

Claire threw her head back and closed her eyes. Now, she knew. Hell wasn't a place. Hell was a metaphor. Hell comprised the moments in life when God's blessings seemed furthest away.

Hell was waking up late on a school day and walking into a classroom to take an exam after the night had been partied away. Hell was the flat tire on the way to a job interview. Hell was the start of a period while on a date with a guy, so hot his looks would melt butter on an icicle. Hell was taking your first ride in a limousine and having the thrill of the first time experience ruined with the presence of an asshole.

"I purchased living the life of a common man. Your role in my social experiment is to play the part of my counterpart. Fail me in this and-"

"You'll what? Shove my brother in one of your little water tubes?"

"Your brother may find one of my 'water tubes' a wonderful reprieve in comparison to the repercussions the BSAA will meter for justice when the fallout from the investigation into Spencer's death settles."

Claire's head shot up. "That comment right there is why you'll never be anything to me, except noise. You're static, Wesker. Pure static. You may kiss any hope of conversation goodbye."

"What a shame. You might have been interested in the few topics I would be willing to discuss in exchange for civil companionship."

"We've bargained enough for one night."

He leaned forward, wicked, ever-present orange ember gleam in his eyes. "I can offer insight you had never imagined, Claire. Going once..."

###

Suits. Uniforms. Suits. Men in more suits, looking rolled out of bed tired, tropped two abreast through the sliding double doors.

"Get a load of those guys."

Rebecca glanced up from a clipboard and paused mid-signature as she watched black-tied and stars and bars devils stream past her in a seemingly never-ending wave of polished loafers and red-eyed weariness.

Men with faces Rebecca had only seen in close up mug shot style pictures on quarterly company newsletters. Men who used ink stamp pads to sign their name.

"That's a hell of a lot of upper management. Were you transporting a spy?"

"No," Rebecca whispered. "BSAA's finest."

"Must be, with that kind of welcome."

Rebecca set the clipboard on the admitting desk, her portion of the journey complete. Chris Redfield was technically no longer her patient. She was officially released from his medical care. Free to make her way to the studio apartment she called home and unwind in a hot bath and a hot meal, whichever suited her needs first.

The suits talked in unison, to each other, over each other. A mortar barrage of questions aimed squarely at the admitting nurse. Pressing forward. Demanding. Moving in a tight knit herd closer and closer to the desk, puffed out chest superiority pushing past Rebecca and cycling her to the back of the pack.

"Chris Redfield."

"Chris Redfield's status."

"Chris Redfield's condition."

"Chris Redfield's current whereabouts."

Classified stamped manila folders gripped in steady hands.

_Jesus_. This was more than collective concern for a soldier wounded in action. More than an average run of the mill military debriefing. _This is something else._

"One at a time. Gentlemen, one at a time."

Rebecca retreated down the hall and lowered herself onto the nearest sofa within earshot and view of the mob milling around the desk. A couple of pitchforks and a few torches and these suits would be ready to storm the Wolfman's lair. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the cushion. Lurk long enough and she wouldn't need to see top secret documents inside a classified folder to fill her in on everything she now, out of curiosity, wanted to know.

###

Searing white-hot pain ripped through her gut, doubling her in half, punching oxygen from her lungs in a rapid gush.

Warmth exploded between her legs. And she knew. It was uncontrollable and red, and a fate undeniably final. Her hand came away from her inner thighs shaking and stained the crimson color of death.

Floating. Spiraling downward, gravity pulling her body deep into an endless chasm. The faint light at the top of the swirling maw slowly fading inward and folding over on top of itself.

Two faces. Bodies collided in silhouette. Desperation and fear. A rush of breeze upon her face.

"How's it going today, Gorgeous?" A familiar voice bubbled up from the depths of mental darkness.

Jill sucked in her breath and batted at the arm floating in the fluorescent light overhead.

"Y...ou, y-y-ou, kill...ed."

The arm came down gently across her chest. "Calm down. It's all right. I haven't killed anything. You were dreaming. Pretty lucid too by the sound of it. Relax. Nobody is going to hurt you. I'm here to see that you get well."

Dreaming? Sleep? Had she slept? Maybe she had, coaxed by immobility and the constant, almost comforting, whir and whine of the machines stationed next to the bed. Seamless hours blended into a fuzzy mental void punctuated with the recurring visions of the profiles of two men extracted from the shadows creeping out from the corners of the room.

The dream, perhaps waking nightmare, scrubbed barren by his reality intrusion. Confused thoughts and the unfathomable memory of a few fleeting moments shoved aside in a rambling torrent of pain coursing up and down her body.

She remembered fear, but not for herself. Desperation, but not for what had been lost.

He'd spoken about babies, that much she remembered. Said she could have lots of them. Had there been a baby, sweet and innocent, lost in hatred and a trauma-vaporized blank state of mind?

She dug chipped fingernails into his white lab coat, pinching the flesh on his arm beneath the material. "A baby? My baby?"

The light swing arm was pushed back and Ryan's face took the place of fluorescent glow.

"I'm sorry, Gorgeous. Truly. The world missed out on a great looking kid."

She dug deeper, dragging her body vertical until her head was almost level with his. "Why?"

###

"You'll have to do better than that. No takers, Wesker. I don't care what you have to say about, well, anything."

"I would strongly advise you reconsider. Open your mind to the possibility I am the guardian of a wealth of information you might enjoy receiving."

"I have the sneaking suspicion my mind isn't the only thing you'd like to open. And unless you'd care to name the exact location of every secret lab you're affiliated with, then I'm afraid you have nothing to say worth a hill of beans to me. Stop dangling Cartier when all you've got is pawn shop."

"As expected, your brain functions as a residual cesspool of vulgarity. Do not make the mistake of fancying yourself the last woman in existence and me as desperate. We are neither. Legs are easily parted, especially those attached to a lingering young girl mentality. I have been forthcoming and succinct in my demands and you have been equally plain. If I had wanted to treat you as your brother entertains his one night affairs I would have done so in the mining town and discarded you like the Redfield refuse that spawned you."

She swung without thinking and connected a satisfying slap that spun his face sideways.

He cocked his head back to center with a bone popping snap, and much to her surprise it was not anger twisting the features of his face into a scowl, it was a lopsided smile.

He'd jabbed the wrong nerve, and he knew it. No apology for the parental slur, brandishing her mother and father as trash.

"Not the desired response I meant to elicit, but I suppose some reaction is more easily tolerated than your self-imposed, defiant, silence. A sore subject, your mother and father?"

"One you'd be wise to avoid, Wesker. Mention them again and I'll put a bullet in your brain while you sleep."

"The hostility of unresolved issues. How old were you when they were denied their mortal existence and dispatched into the great beyond? The police reports were rather vague. Christopher is mentioned multiple times in the case file. You are surprisingly absent."

Claire curled her fingers into a fist.

Wesker's gaze shifted from her face to her hand. "If you so much as twitch I will break every bone in your arm."

"You wouldn't."

"Do it, and find out. I mean what I say and say what I mean."

Claire shook her head and relaxed her grip. "You aren't worth expended energy."

"I offered to make our conversation worth your time, your energy, your half-assed effort. Let us put your temporarily circumvented bottled rage to more productive use. Shall we try again? I will give you information I have on the whereabouts and status on one of two people. Your choice. Not both. One."

"Nope. Still not interested."

"In exchange for this information you will answer any question I choose to ask related to your Redfield life, up to and including information about your mother and father, prior to the rise of Chris Redfield as your overlord and dictator. You will engage me in polite discussion on any topic I choose to discuss."

"You obviously read the police reports. You know what I know. What else have you read?"

Wesker unbuttoned his jacket and spread his arms open across the top of the seat. "Enough to script an entire Redfield documentary without you as a fact checker. Blame only yourself. You opened the door, Claire. Invited me into your world. I told you I would monitor your computer access, and monitor I did. Every click. Every website. Every chat room. Going twice."

"Did you break out binoculars and watch me undress from a hiding spot in the bushes too?"

"No, but surveillance video did manage to capture quite a few goodnight breast massages in the front seat of Kennedy's car."

"Let me get this straight; you're a cold-blooded killer, a psychopath, a sociopath, a lunatic, a traitor, a savage son-of-a-bitch, a remorseless turd, a waste of skin, and...a pervert. Bravo! Winner is you of the man most likely to make me vomit my intestines out my ears from pure disgust. You go to hell!"

"I did not say I watched the videos, Claire. They were erased in deference to your modesty. I am fairly positive your neighbor had a more generous view. He stood at his front window, shielded by a curtain, when Prince Charming pulled into the driveway. Would you care for a teaser? A morsel of the invaluable insight I can provide? Think carefully before you refuse. The offer is null the moment you decline."

Claire frowned and turned her head to the window, the world outside rushing by in streaks of gray.

"You may have a detailed account of the life and experimental trials of Mr. Steve Burnside."

She jerked upright and braced her hand on the door handle to keep from jolting out of her seat, her eyelids sucked behind the wide-eyed whites of her eyes.

"Alternatively, you may choose to sacrifice your own selfish interests and pursue information relating to the current circumstances surrounding your brother's bed warmer, Jill Valentine."

"I knew it! She's alive. What have you done? Where is she?"

Wesker waggled a finger back and forth. "Not without a choice. Going three times."

Claire tugged on her lower lip with her teeth. _Steve_. _Dead? Not dead?_ _Is it a trick? I pick Steve and Wesker laughs in my face and tells me I already know the answer. He gets what he wants and I'm left empty handed. Forced to talk to him at his beck and call. Jill. Chris is in deep. When they tell him Jill is dead he'll be devastated. I can't tell him she's alive. He'll want to know how I know. He can't find out I was with...with...this deviant prick. I'm a terrible liar. Keeping this Humpty Dumpty mess off Chris's bullshit radar is going to be hard enough without inventing more lies to reassure him Jill is alive. It doesn't always have to be about someone else. I can choose me. I deserve to know what happened to Steve. Why can't it be for me?_

She squared her shoulders and her mouth opened. "Jill. I want to know what you've done with Jill."

"Sold, to the woman in the torn shirt and smeared mascara. Civil conversation, Claire. Really, was it too much to ask?"


End file.
